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iUITl  l]U(7i 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

THEIR  HISTORY  AND  THEIR  USE 


BY 

HELEN  LOUISE  COHEN 

Author  of  The  Ballade 


WITH  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

Ballades 

Chants  Royal 

Rondels 

Rondeaus 

Triolets 

Villanelles 

Sestinas 

IN  ENGLISH  VERSE 


a 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


5601G 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACE  AND   COMPANY,   INC, 


•  »  •  •  I 
»  •  •  • » 


«  1  ^     «      c 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U     S     A.    BY 

THE     OUINN     a     BODEN     COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N      J 


'^  MY  MOTHER 


Q 


^ 


^ 


The  note,  I  trowe,  maked  was  in  Fraunce. 

— Geojfrey   Chaucer. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  permission  to  use  the  material  reprinted  in  the  anthology 
included  in  this  volume,  I  must  note  my  specific  indebtedness  as 
follows : 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

B.    H.    Black- 
well 

*  Christopher 
Morley 

The  E 
Sin 

ighth 

All  Lovely 
Things 

Rondel    (After 
Charles   d'Or- 
leans) 

To  R.  L.  S. 

Twilight 

Burns  &  Oates, 
Ltd. 

*G.  K.  Ches- 
terton 

Poems 

« 

A  Ballade   of  a 
Book-Reviewer 

A  Ballade  of 
Suicide 

A  Ballade  of 
the    First    Rain 

Catholic  *T.  A.  Daly 

Standard   and 
Times  Pub- 
lishing   Com- 
pany 


Canzoni 


At  Home 

Ballade   to   the 
Women 

Mistletoe  and 
Holly 


*  Century 
Company 


*  Edward 
Anthony 


Merry-Go- 
Roundelays 


Epitaph   for  a 
Deserving 
Lady 


*  The  asterisk   (*)    indicates  the  source  of  permission. 

vii 


VIU 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher  Author  Book 

*  Chatto  and       f  George  Poetical 

Windus  Macdonald  Works 


Ernest 
Cooper 


*  Arthur 
Compton- 
Rickett 


Constable  and     *  Lady- 
Company  Margaret 
Sackville 

"^Dodd,    Mead    *  Carolyn 
and   Com-  Wells 

pany 


Our  Poets  at 
School 


Selected  Poems 


Baubles 


Title 
Two  Rondels 

Triolet 

A  Roundel 

O  Winds  that 
Wail 

Ballade    of    the 
Journey's   End 


Ballade  of 
Indignation 

Ballade  of  Wis- 
dom and  Folly 

Her  Spinning- 
wheel 


*  George  H.        Joyce  Kilmer      Joyce    Kilmer 
Doran   Com- 
pany 


*  George  H.  *  Christopher       The  Rocking 
Doran  Com-  Morley                 Horse 
pany 

*  Doubleday,  *  Franklin            Something 
Page   and  P.  Adams             Else   Again 
Company 

*  Doubleday,  *  Franklin            Weig]its  and 
Page  and  P.  Adams             Measures 
Company 

t  Permission  of  the  executors. 


Maiden  Medita- 
tion 

Ballade    of    My 
Lady's    Beauty 

Princess  Ballade 
For  a  Birthday 

When  Shake- 
speare Laughed 

Such   Stuff   as 
Dreams 


Ballade  of 
Schopenhauer's 
Philosophy 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


IX 


Publisher 

*  Doubleday, 
Page  and 
Company 

*  Doubleday, 
Page  and 
Company, 
and 

*A.  P.  Watt  & 
Son 


Author 
*  Franklin 
P.  Adams 


*  Rudyard 
Kipling 


Book 

Weights  and 
Measures 


Seven  Seas 


Title 
ViUanelle,   With 
Stevenson's 
Assistance 

Sestina    of    the 
Tramp-Royal 


*  Doubleday, 
Page  and 
Company 


*  Richard 
Le  Gallienne 


The  Junk- 
Man 


*  Doubleday, 
Page  and 
Company 


*Don 

Marquis 


Dreams  and 
Dust 


Ballade  Against 
the  Enemies  of 
France  (Fran- 
cois  Villon) 

Ballade  of  Old 
Laughter 

Ballade  of  the 
Hanging  Gar- 
dens of  Baby- 
lon 

Ballade  of  the 
Things  That 
Remain 

Ballade   of  the 
Unchanging 
Beauty 

Chant  of  the 
Changing 
Hours 


'King   Pandion, 
He  Is  Dead' 

The  Rondeau 

The  Triolet 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher  Author 

*  Doubleday,  *  Don 

Page  and  Marquis 
Company 


Book  Title 

The  Old  Soak  Chant  Royal  of 
and  Hail  and      the  Dejected 
Fareivell  Dipsomaniac 


*E.  P.  Dutton   Austin  Dobson    Collected  A  Ballad  of 

&  Company  Poems  Heroes 

A  Ballad  to 
Queen 
Elizabeth 

After  Watteau 

A  Greeting 

"A  Voice  in  the 
Scented  Night" 

"Farewell, 
Renown" 

For  a  Copy  of 
Theocritus 

In  After  Days 

"O  Fons 
Bandusias" 

On    a    Fan    that 
Belonged  to 
the  Marquise 
de  Pompadour 

On  a  Nankin 
Plate 

"0  Navis" 

"Persicos   Odi" 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Publisher  Author  Book 

*E.  P.  Dutton   Austin  Dobson    Collected 
&  Company  Poems 


XI 

Title 
Rose-Leaves 

The  Ballad  of 
Prose   and 
Rhyme 

The  Ballad  of 
Imitation 

The  Ballad  of 
the  Thrush 

The  Dance  of 
Death 

The  Prodigals 

The  Wanderer 

To  Daffodils 

"Vitas 
Hinnuleo" 

"When 
Burbadge 
Played" 

"When  Finis 
Comes" 

"When   I   Saw 
You   Last, 
Rose" 

"With  Pipe  and 
Flute" 


*E.  P.  Dutton    *Burges  Youngsters 

&  Company  Johnson 


Ballade  of  the 
Little  Things 
That    Count 


Xll 


A  CKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

*  Harcourt, 
Brace   and 
Company 

*T.  A.  Daly 

McAroni 
Ballads 

Ballade  of  the 
Tempting 
Book 

*  Harcourt, 
Brace  and 
Company 

*  Edwin 

Meade 
Robinson 

Piping  and 
Panning 

Ballade  of  a 
Backslider 

♦Harcourt, 
Brace  and 
Company 

*  Louis 
Untermeyer 

Heavens 

Ballade 
Triolet 

*  Harcourt, 
Brace  and 
Company 

*  Louis 
Untermeyer 

Including 
Horace 

A  Burlesque 
Rondo 

A  Complacent 
Rondeau 
Redouble 

Lugubrious 
Villanelle  of 
Platitudes 

Harper  & 
Brothers 

*Burges 
Johnson 

Bashful 
Ballads 

A  Rondeau  of 
Remorse 

William 
Heineman 

*  Edmund 
Gosse 

Collected 
Poems 

Fortunate    Love 

Sestina 

The  Ballad  of 
Dead  Cities 

Theodore  de 
Banville 

Villanelle 

*  Henry   Holt 
and  Com- 
pany 

*Sir  Owen 
Seaman 

A   Harvest  of 
Chaff 

To  Austin  Dob 
son.    After 
Himself. 
(Rondeau  of 
Villon) 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


xiu 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

*  Henry  Holt 
and   Com- 
pany 

*  Louis 
Untermeyer 

— and  Other 
Poets 

Austin  Dobson 
Recites  a 
Ballade  by' 
Way  of  Retort 

Nocturne 

A  Passionate 
Aesthete  to  His 
Love.    Andrew 
Lang  and 
Oscar  Wilde 
Turn   a   Nur- 
sery Rhyme 
into  a  Rondeau 
Redouble 

The  Poet  Be- 
trayed.     Hein- 
rich  Heine  and 
Clinton  Scol- 
lard    Construct 
a  Rondeau 

*  Houghton 
Mifflin 
Company 

*John  Drink- 
water 

Poems 
1908-1919 

Roundels  of  the 
Year 

*  Houghton 
Mifflin 
Company 

Frank 
Dempster 
Sherman 

The  Poems  of 
Frank  Demp- 
ster Sherman 

"Awake, 
Awake!" 

To  Austin 
Dobson 

C.  Kegan, 
Paul  &  Co. 

*  Edmund 
Gosse 

New  Poems 

Rondeau 

Rondel    (After 
Anyte  of 
Tegea) 

The  Praise  of 
Dionysus 

Villanelle 

XIV 


A  CKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher 
C.  Kegan, 
Paul  &  Co. 

*  Alfred  A. 
Knopf 

*  Alfred  A. 
Knopf 


*  Alfred  A. 
Knopf 

John  Lane 


*John  Lane 
Company 
(Dodd, 
Mead  and 
Company) 


John  Lane 
(Dodd, 
Mead  and 
Company) 

*  John  Lane 
(Dodd, 
Mead  and 
Company) 

*John  Lane 
Company 
(Dodd, 
Mead  and 
Company) 


Author 
*  A.  Mary  F. 
Robinson 

*  Witter 
Bynner 


Book  Title 

A   Handful  of    A  Ballad  of 
Honeysuckle        Heroes 


*A.   P. 

bert 


Her- 


Young 
Harvard 

The  Bomber 
Gtfsy 


'The  Loves  of 
Every  Day' 

Ballade  of 
Incipient 
Lunacy 


B.  L.  Taylor 


*  Anthony   C. 
Deane 


Ernest 
Dowson 


The  So-Called  Ballade  of  the 
Human  Race      Oubliette 


New   Rhymes 
for  Old 


Contributed  by 
Mr.  Andrew^ 
Lang 


The  Poems  of  Rondeau 

Ernest    Dow-    ,..,,       ,,       ^ 
Villanelle  of 

Acheron 

Villanelle  of 
His  Lady's 
Treasures 

Villanelle  of 
Marguerites 

Villanelle  of 
the   Poet's 
Road 


*  Richard  English  Poems  The  Destined 

Le  Gallienne  Maid:  A 

Prayer 


E.  A.  Mackin     A   Highland 
tosh  Regiment 


Margaret  L,        Collected 
Woods  Poems 


To  Catullus 


A  Ballade  of 
the  Night 


A  CKNOWLEDGMENTS 


XV 


Publisher 


Life 


Author 
*  Arthur 
Guiterman 


Book 


Title 
Apology 

Ballade  of 
Caution 

Parable 


*  Little, 
Brown  and 
Company 


*  Little, 
Brown  and 
Company 


D.  Lothrop 
and  Com- 
pany 


Arlo  Bates  Berries   of  the    In  Thy  Clear 


Louise 
Chandler 
Moulton 


*  Clinton 
Scollard 


Briar 


Poems  and 
Sonnets 


With  Reed 
and   Lyre 


Macmillan    & 
Co. 


*  Arthur  Reed     Poems 
Ropes 


The  Manas 
Press 


t  Adelaide 
Crapsey 


Verse 


Eyes 

Might  Love  Be 
Bought 

If  Love  Could 
Last 

In  Winter 

Thistle-Down 

Farewell,    Fare- 
well, Old  Year 

For  Me   the 
Blithe   Ballade 

Love,  Why  So 
Long  Away 

Where   Are   the 
Ships  of 
Tyre? 

Ballade  of  a 
Garden 

From   Theodore 
de  Banville 

Song 


f  Permission  of  Claude  Bragdon,  literary  executor. 


XVI 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher 
Robert   M. 


Author 
*  James 


Book  Title 

From  the  Hid-    Arcadians  Con- 


McBride  & 
Co. 

Branch 
Cabell 

den  Way 

fer  in  Exile 

Fancies  in 
Filigree 

Foot-Note  for 
Idyls 

Grave  Gallantry 

Ronsard  Re- 
voices  a 
Truism 

The   Conqueror 

Passes 

The  Hoidens 

Villon   Quits 
France 

Robert  M. 
McBride  & 
Co. 

*James 
Branch 
Cabell 

Cords  of 
Vanity 

Story  of  the 
Flowery 
Kingdom 

David   McKay 

*T.  A.  Daly 

Madrigali 

A  Ballade  of 
Brides 

David   McKay 

*  Edwin 
Meade 
Robinson 

Mere 
Melodies 

Ballade  a 
Double 
Refrain 

Ballade  of 
Easter  Dawn 

In  Visionshire 

Thomas  Bird 
Mosher 

*  Clinton 
Scollard 

Lyrics  from 
Library 

a    Alas,   For  the 
Fleet  Wings  of 
Time 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


XVll 


Publisher  Author  Book  Title 

David  Nutt  *John  Drink-     Poetns  of  Love    Earth  Love 

water  and  Death 


Basil 

Montagu 
Pickering 


*  Robert 
Bridges 


Poems 


Rondeau 
Rondeau 

Triolet 
Triolet 


Privately 
Printed 


*Brander  Fugitives  A  Ballade  of 

Matthews  from    Justice      Midsummer 

An  American 
Girl 


Les  Morts  Vont 
Vite 

Rain   and   Shine 

Sub  Rosa 

The  Ballade  of 
Adaptation 

The  Old  and 

the  New 


Puck's 
Annual 


*Brander 
Matthews 


August 

The  Ballade  of 
Fact  and 
Fiction 


*G.  P.  Put-        John    McCrae     In   Flanders         In   Flanders 
nam's  Sons  Fields  Fields 


G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons 


♦  Clinton 
Scollard 


Pictures   in 
Song 


A  Snowflake  in 
May 


xvni 


A  CKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

G.  P.  Put- 

* Clinton 

Pictures 

in 

At  Peep  of 

nam's  Sons 

Scollard 

Song 

Dawn 

Ballade  of  Dead 
Poets 

Cupid   and  the 
Shepherd 

King  Boreas 

The  Prayer  of 
Dryope 

Upon    the    Stair 
I  See  My  Lady 
Stand 

Villanelle  to 
Helen 

Villanelle  to  the 
DaflFodil 

Vis   Erotis 


The  Reilly 
and  Britton 
Company 


tB.  L.  Taylor 


A  Line-o'- 
Verse  or  Two 


A  Ballade  of 
Irresolution 

A  Ballade  of 

Spring's 
Unrest 


Ballade  of 
Death  and 
Time 

Ballade  of  the 
Pipesmoke 
Carry 


f  Permission  of  Mrs.  B.  L.  Taylor. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


XIX 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

Sampson, 
Low, 

Marston  and 
Company 

*  Annie 
Matheson 

Love's  Music 
and  Other 
Poems 

Rondeau 

♦Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 

Henry  Cuyler 
Bunner 

The  Poems  of 
H.  C.  Bunner 

A  Pitcher  of 
Mignonette 

Les  Morts  Vont 
Vite 

0  Honey  of 
Hymettus    Hill 

*  Charles 

Scribner's 
Sons 

Eugene  Field 

Songs  and 
Other    Verse 

Ballade  of 
Women  I  Love 

*  Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 

Andrew  Lang 

Ballades  and 
Verses  Vain 

Ballade  of  Dead 
Cities 

Ballade  of  Dead 
Ladies    (After 
Villon) 

Ballade  of  Old 
Plays 

Ballade  of 
Primitive  Man 

Ballade  to 
Theocritus,   In 
Winter 

*  Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 

*  Edwin 

Arlington 
Robinson 

Children   of 
the  Night 

Ballade  by  the 
Fire 

Ballade  of 
Broken  Flutes 

The   House  on 
the  Hill 

XX 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher  Author                Book 

*  Charles  Sidney  Colvin     The  Letters  of 

Scribner's  Robert    Louis 

Sons  Stevenson 


Title 

Far    Have    You 
Come,  My 
Lady,  From 
the  Town 


*  Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 

Small,  May- 
nard  & 
Company 


Graham 
Balfour 


*  Gelett 
Burgess 


The  Life  of 
Robert    Louis 
Stevenson 

A  Gage  of 
Youth 


We'll  Walk  the 
Woods  No 
More 

Since  I  Am 
Sworn  to  Live 
My  Life 

Ballade   of   Fog 
in  the  Caiion 

Ballade   of  the 
Cognoscenti 

Chant  Royal  of 
California 

Chant  Royal  of 
the  True 
Romance 

Rondeau:  Oh,  in 
My  Dreams  I 
Flew 

A  Daughter  of 
the  North 


♦  Frederick  A. 

Walter 

Between 

Stokes  and 

Learned 

Times 

Brother 

Rondel  of 
Perfect 
Friendship 

Sestina  of 
Youth  and 
Age 

In    Explanation 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


XXI 


Publisher 

Author 

Book 

Title 

*  The 
Spectator 

R.  L.  Megroz 

A   Villanelle   of 
Love 

T.  Fisher 
Unvvin 

*A.  Mary  F. 
Robinson 

An   Italian 
Garden 

Pulvis  et 
Umbra 

White,  Stokes 
and  Allen 

*  Samuel 
Minturn 
Peck 

Cap  and  Bells 

Among  My 
Books 

'Before  the 
Dawn' 

Beyond  the 

Night 

The  Pixies 
Under   the   Rose 

*Yale  Univer- 
sity  Press 

*Karle 
Wilson 
Baker 

Blue  Smoke 

Rondel  for 
September 

Yale  Univer- 
sity  Press 

*  Brian 
Hooker 

Poems 

Ballade  of 
Farewell 

Ballade    of    the 
Dreamland 
Rose 

*  Edward 
Anthony 

Ballade  of 
Dottiness 

He  Collected 
His    Thoughts 

f  Henry 
Cuyler 
Bunner 

An  April  Fool 

Behold   the 
Deeds! 

f  Permission  of  Mrs.  H.  C.  Bunner. 


XXll 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Publisher 


Author 

t  Henry 
Cuyler 
Bunner 


*  Patrick 
Chalmers 


Book  Title 

On  Newport 
Beach 

Ready   for   the 
Ride 

Saint  Valentine 

That  New 
Year's  Call 

The  Ballade  of 
the  Summer 
Boarder 

Ballade  of 
August 

Ballade  of  Cry- 
ing-   for    the 
Moon 

Ballade   of  the 
Forest  in 
Summer 


*  Edmund 
Gosse 


Triolet,  After 
Catullus 


♦Robert 
Grant 


Rondeaux  of 
Cities 


♦Arthur 
Guiterman 


Ballade  of 
Dime  Novels 


*  Richard 
Le  Gallienne 


A  Ballade  of 
Old  Sweet- 
hearts 

With  Pipe  and 
Book 


t  Permission  of  Mrs.  H.  C.  Bunner. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Publisher  Author  Book 

*  George 
Moore 


*  Christopher 
Morley 


*  Nate 
Salsbury  and 
Newman 
Levy 

*  Clinton 
Scollard 


*  Rowland 
Thirlmere 


xxui 

Title 
Rondels 

The  Ballade  of 
Lovelace 

Ballade  of 
Books 
Unbought 

Ballade   of  the 
Lost  Refrain 

Ballade  of  the 
Ancient 
Wheeze 


Alone  in 
Arcady 

A  Ballade  of 
Midsummer 

My   Dead   Dogs 


I  am  glad  to  acknowledge  a  more  personal  debt  to  Edmund 
Gosse,  to  whose  interest  in  this  project  of  mine  and  to  whose 
generous  encouragement  I  owe  much.  My  gratitude  is  due  in 
large  measure  also  to  Brander  Matthews,  Clinton  Scollard,  Louis 
Untermeyer,  Christopher  Morley,  and  Edward  Anthony  for 
many  friendly  and  practical  suggestions.  In  conclusion,  it  gives 
me  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  heartily  to  thank  Miss  Helen 
Hopkins  Crandell,  who  has  helped  me  read  the  proofs  and  com- 
pile the  index  H.  L.  C. 


New  York,  1  August,  1922. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Acknowledgments 

LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


fAGE 

vii 


Introduction    . 

Enumeration  of  the  Forms 
Character   of   the   Ballade 
Character  of  the  Rondeau 
Their  Roots  in  the  Past 
Refrain   Poetry 
Structure    of    Dance    Songs 
Refrain  Fragments 


3 
3 
4 
4 
5 
6 
7 
7 


II 


Development  of  the  Ballade 
History  of  the  Word  Ballade 
Provengal   Balada    . 
The   Ballette    .... 
Earliest  Ballades 
The  Development  of  the  Ballade  in  the  Ptiy 
The  Vogue  of  the  Ballade    .... 


8 
8 
8 
9 
9 
10 
13 


III 

The  Ballade  in  France  from  the  End  of  the 
Fourteenth  to  the  Middle  of  the  Seven- 
teenth   Century 14 

Guillaume    de    Machault 14 

Eustache    Deschamps IS 

Jean   Froissart 15 

Christine  de  Pisan 15 

Charles  d'Orleans 16 

XXV 


xxvl  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PACE 

Francois  Villon 16 

Grands    R/ietoriqueurs     .         .         .         .         .         .         .  17 

Clement    Marot 17 

Treatises    on    Poetry       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  18 

The   Pleiade 18 

The     Salons 18 

Vincent    Voiture 19 

Complications  of  the  Ballade 19 

Ballades  in  Dialogue 22 

Ballades  on  Religious  Subjects 24 

The  Ubi  Sunt  Motive 26 

Proverb    Ballades 27 

Fable   Ballades 28 

Courtly  Love 29 

Ballade  Sequences 30 

Satirical    Ballades    .         .      , 32 

Historical    Ballades 3  3 


IV 

Ballades  in  the  Drama 33 


The  Ballade  in  the  Treatises  on  Poetry  .        36 

The  Arts  de  Seconds  R/ietorique  from    1392-1673    .        36 
The  Reference  to  the  Ballade  in  Moliere   .         .         .        36 


VI 

The   Middle   English   Ballade 38 

Chaucer 38 

His   French   Sources 42 

Lydgate 45 

VII 

The  Chant  Royal 47 

Deschamps 47 

Clement    Marot 47 

The  Forms  in  the  Poetics 49 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXVll 


VIII 

The  Rondeau  in  France 
Origin 
Varieties 
Deschamps 
Christine  de  Pisan 
Charles  d'Orleans 
Francois  Villon 
Standardization  of  the  Rondeau 
The   Rondeau   in   the   Drama 
Clement  Marot 
Vincent    Voiture 

The  Exile  of  the  Rondeau  from 
Benserade         .... 
Anthony    Hamilton 
Alfred  de  Musset    . 


the  Puy 


PAGE 

50 
SO 
52 
52 
54 
56 
56 
57 
58 
58 
59 
60 
61 
61 
61 


IX 


The  Rondeau  Redouble 


62 


The   Triolet 63 

Its    Use   as   a   Political   Weapon 63 

Sieur   de    Saint-Amant 63 

Ranchin             6+ 

Patrick  Carey 64 


XI 


The  Rondeau  in  England 66 

Middle  English  Roundel 66 

Chaucer                      66 

His  Relations  with  French  Poets 67 

Hoccleve 69 

Lydgate 69 

Wyatt .70 

Charles   Cotton        . 71 

The   Rolliad 71 


xxvm 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XII 

PAGE 

The  Villanelle 73 

Jean  Passerat 73 

XIII 

The  Sestina 74 

Arnaut    Daniel 74 

Pontus   de   Tyard 75 

Barnabe    Barnes 75 

Comte  de  Gramoa*- 77 


XIV 


The  Revival   of  the  Forms   in  the   Nineteenth 

Century     

The  Forms  in  Nineteenth-Century  France 

Sainte-Beuve  and  the  Ballade 

Theodore   de   Banville    .... 

Glatigny,  Tailhade,  Bergerat  and  Rostand 

The  Re-introduction  of  the  Forms  into  England 

The  Part  Played  by  Gosse,  Dobson  and  Lang 

Latter  Day  Lyrics   ..... 

Swinburne's   Partisanship 

Stevenson's  Interest  .... 

Gleeson  White's  Ballades  and  Rondeaus 

Oscar   Wilde's    Reactions 

The  Forms  in  America   .... 

Brander    Matthews  .... 

H.    C.    Bunner         

Rule   of  Thumb  for  the  Construction  of  the  Forms 
Contents  of  the  Anthology 


78 
78 
78 
79 
80 
81 
81 
83 
86 
89 
89 
90 
90 
90 
90 

92 
97 


THE  ANTHOLOGY 95 

Ballades 115 

Ballades  a  Double  Refrain 253 

Double  Ballades     263 

Chants  Royal 275 

Rondels 301 

Rondeaus 323 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXIX 


Roundels    . 
RoNDEAUx   Redoubles 
Triolets     . 

ViLLANELLES 

Sestinas 

Parodies  and  Burlesques 

Adaptations 


Index  of  Titles  in  the  Anthology 

Index  of  First  Lines 

Refrains  of  Ballades  and  Chants  Royal 


PAGE 

373 
387 
395 
415 
445 
463 
489 

497 
511 
523 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 
THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE 


INTRODUCTION 

Those  who  make  a  practice  of  reading  poetry,  even  in 
a  desultory  way,  are  likely  to  be  able  to  identify  at 
least  one  fixed  verse  form.  That  a  sonnet  has  four- 
teen lines  is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  to  many 
people,  even  though  they  may  ignore  its  elaborate  rhyme 
system.  The  sonnet,  coming  originally  from  Italy, 
is  the  most  frequent  of  all  fixed  verse  forms  in  English, 
but  the  ballade  and  the  rondeau  have  in  the  last  fifty 
years  become  increasingly  familiar.  The  poems  that 
belong  to  what  might  be  called  the  ballade  and  the  ron- 
deau families,  and  the  lyric  that  is  known  as  a  villanelle, 
originated  in  France,  the  sestina  in  Provence.  To  the 
ballade  family  belong  the  ballade  itself,  the  chant  royal, 
the  ballade  a  double  refrain,  and  the  double  ballade. 
Of  the  rondeau  family,  the  triolet  is  the  earliest  an- 
cestor known,  and  from  it  have  developed  in  more  or 
less  chronological  order  the  rondel,  the  rondeau,  and 
the  rondeau  redouble.  All  of  these  forms  are  char- 
acterized by  a  refrain,  a  group  of  lines,  a  single  line, 
or  a  phrase,  recurring  at  regular  intervals.  The  vil- 
lanelle, likewise,  which  belongs  to  a  much  later  literary 
generation,  is  a  refrain  poem,  j  The  sestina  is  built 
up,  also,  on  the  principle  of  repetition  in  the  verse  pat- 
tern, but  in  the  case  of  the  Provencal  form  it  is  a  matter 
of  the  repetition  of  single  words  in  an  intricate  scheme^ 
rather  than  of  the  recurrence  of  an  easily  recognized 
refrain. 

3 


4-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  reader  with  a  taste  for  poetry  who  is  interested 
also  in  the  drama,  remembering  Rostand's  play  of 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  may  recall  that  Cyrano  fights  a 
duel,  at  one  point  in  the  action,  with  the  foppish  and 
foolish  Vicomte  de  Valvert,  who  has  assailed  Cyrano's 
ears  with  the  contemptuous  epithet  of  poet,  and  that 
Cyrano  responds  by  admitting,  forsooth,  that  he  is  a 
poet,  but  that  he  is  also  a  fighter  and  that  in  order  to 
uphold  both  of  his  claims  he  will  engage  the  Vicomte 
in  a  duel,  the  while  he  times  his  sword  thrusts  to  an 
impromptu  ballade;  and  how  Cyrano  pleasingly  suggests 
that  the  Vicomte  does  not  know  what  a  ballade  is,  any- 
way, butj:hat  a  ballade  in  truth  is  composed  of  three 
stanzas  of  eight  lines  and  an  envoy  of  four,  and 
that  it  is  necessary  for  Cyrano  to  take  great  care  in 
choosing  the  rhymes  in  advance,  because  no  new  rhymes 
can  be  introduced  after  the  three  appearing  in  the  first 
stanza  have  been  settled  upon,  and  that  the  words  which 
he  announces,  amusingly  enough,  for  the  refrain  of  his 
impromptu  ballade,  are,  "At  the  last  line  of  the  envoy 
I  shall  break  through  your  guard  and  pink  you,"  or, 
as  the  line  runs  in  French,  "Qu'a  la  fin  de  I'envoy  je 
touche." 

John  McCrae's  In  Flanders  Fields y  the  most  fre- 
quently quoted  and  widely  known  of  all  the  poems  pro- 
duced during  the  Great  War,  is  a  rondeau.  The  fea- 
tures of  the  rondeau  were  once  enumerated  by  the  sev- 
enteenth century  poet  Voiture  in  the  form  itself,  and 
it  is  this  poem  which  Austin  Dobson  has  imitated  in  the 
following  lines: 


You  bid  me  try,  blue  eyes,  to  write 

A  rondeau.     What! — forthwith — to-night? 

Reflect.      Some  skill  I  have,  'tis  true; 

But  thirteen  lines — and  rhymed  on  two — 
"Refrain,"  as  well.     Ah,  hapless  plight! 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  5 

Still,  there  are  five  lines — ranged  aright. 
These  Gallic  bonds,  I  feared,  would  fright 
My  easy  Muse.     They  did  till  you — 
You  bid  me  try! 

This  makes  them  nine.     The  port's  in  sight; 

'Tis  all  because  your  eyes  are  bright! 
Now,  just  a  pair  to  end  with  *oo' — 
When  maids  command,  what  can't  we  do? 

Behold!   the  rondeau — tasteful,  light — 
You  bid   me   try! 

It  is  quite  possible  for  the  apprentice  in  poetry,  after 
consulting  a  handbook  of  poetics  or  a  treatise  on  the 
mechanics  of  French  or  English  verse,  to  use  the  ballade 
and  the  rondeau,  which  have  become  poetic  patterns  for 
both  French  and  English  versifiers,  as  mere  metrical 
exercises.  The  very  rigidity  of  the  rules  that  prescribe 
their  structure  makes  them  attractive  alike  to  poet  and 
poetaster.  But  these  forms  are,  after  all,  most  signifi- 
cant to  the  student  of  literary  history,  be  he  poet  or 
critic,  to  whom  the  group  of  French  fixed  verse  forms 
suggest  the  high  romance  and  glamorous  enchantment  of 
a  colorful  and  picturesque  state  of  society. 

In  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  poet  fre- 
quently represented  himself  as  rapt  from  consciousness 
by  a  vision  of  other  worlds  and  of  events,  past  and 
future.  Dante,  to  name  the  most  illustrious  example, 
employed  his  vision  to  interpret  the  universe.  If  the 
author  of  the  most  casual  and  commonplace  experi- 
ments in  the  ballade  or  rondeau  should,  in  the  fashion  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  conceive  himself  as  beholding  in  a 
dream  the  fair  past  of  these  forms,  the  vision  might  out- 
line itself  in  this  summary  fashion:  Before  his  eyes, 
turned  back  to  medieval  France,  would  tower  the  gray 
battlements  of  a  castle  rising  from  green  fields — "an 
outpost  of  winter"  in  a  world  of  spring — arched  over 
by  a  deep  blue  sky,  outlined  against  a  background  of 
fragrant  fruit  trees  in  blossom,  the  rough  walls  echoing 


6  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

to  the  sound  of  bird  song  mingling  with  the  music  of 
viol  and  lute.  And  this  setting  might  be  peopled,  still 
in  the  dream,  by  multicolored  groups  of  men  and  women, 
kindled  by  spring  magic  to  engage  once  more  in  the 
games  and  rites  of  the  season.  And  these  ceremonies 
would  assume  the  guise  of  dances,  and  every  time,  as 
the  same  evolution  in  the  pattern  of  the  dance  repeated 
itself,  would  come  the  same  strain  ot  music  and  the 
same  phrase  of  song.  But  a  vision  of  this  sort,  alter 
all,  would  not  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  The 
dreamer  might  well  be  rudely  roused  from  his  picture 
world  by  the  rumbling  of  a  heavy  truck,  or  the  bleating 
echo  of  an  automobile  horn,  before  he  had  had  a 
chance,  like  the  central  figure  in  the  Divine  Comedy^ 
to  evolve  a  cosmos,  or,  smaller  enterprise,  to  penetrate 
in  his  dream,  the  origins  of  refrain  poetry,  in  general, 
or  the  connection  of  fixed  verse  forms  such  as  the  bal- 
lade and  the  rondeau  with  the  spring  rites  of  the  early 
folk  of  France. 

The  beginnings  of  refrain  poetry  is  an  interesting 
subject  for  speculation.  By  and  large,  it  is  true  that  the 
refrain  in  the  literature  of  any  language  goes  back  to 
a  far  earlier  stage  of  civilization  than  is  represented 
by  the  most  hoary  of  written  records.  The  refrain, 
like  so  many  persistent  survivals  in  modern  life  and 
literature,  is  a  relic  of  a  folk  still  applying  primitive 
methods  to  agriculture  and  industry,  still  under  the  spell 
of  a  primitive  religion.  The  medieval  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, emerging  in  the  poet's  vision  from  their  gray 
castle  on  to  the  greensward  to  circle  about  in  the  spring 
sunshine,  are  by  many  stages  removed  from  the  state 
of  society  in  which  the  simple  folk  of  a  countryside 
assembled  at  crossroads  or  market  place  to  make  the  best 
possible  terms  at  the  beginning  of  summer,  with  the 
gods  of  life  and  fertility.  The  choral  song  of  these 
assemblies  is  the  very  earliest  form  of  all  poetry.     If  we 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  7 

judge  from  the  analogy  of  other  primitive  peoples,  it 
is  very  certain  that  sophisticated  and  artistic  poetic  forms, 
like  the  ballade  and  the  rondel,  which  employ  a  regular 
refrain,  are  in  the  direct  line  of  a  long  descent  from 
U"'  choral  folk-songs,  in  which  the  people  of  the  village 
cooperated   with  an   accomplished  leader  in  raising  the 

dance-song  which  accompanied  their  movements.  -^ 

The  primitive  dance-song  was  probably  composed  of 
single  lines  of  text  alternating  with  the  refrain.  In 
course  of  time  the  number  of  lines  was  in  all  likelihood 
increased,  and  one  or  more  of  them  made  to  rhyme 
with  the  refrain.  This  process  went  on,  no  doubt, 
because  verses  that  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  dance  . 
would  naturally  be  adapted  to  the  music.  The  repeti-  ^ 
tion  of  a  favorite  tune  would  compel  those  supplying 
the  words  to  furnish  successive  line  groups  necessarily 
alike  in  structure.  To  provide  variety,  the  refrain  was 
gradually  introduced  into  the  stanza  itself,  but  at  first 
there  were  no  rules  governing  either  the  form  of  the 
refrain  or  its  place  in  the  stanza/^  Only  the  exigencies 
of  the  rhyme  in  any  way  affected  its  position.  The 
fragments  of  dance-songs^  that  are  left  are  not  older 
than  the  thirteenth  century.  While  they  reflect  the  man- 
nePof  the  old  popular  dance-songs  of  the  peasants,  it 
is  certainly  true  that  in  the  form  in  which  we  know 
them,  the  form  given  them  by  courtly  poets,  the  trou- 
veres,  the  form  that  was  made  to  accompany  the  dance 
in  the  halls  of  great  nobles,  they  were  aristocratic  and 
not  popular.  In  the  extant  refrains,  recognized  as  frag- 
ments of  an  older  poetry,  the  allusions  to  the  dance  are 
innumerable.  The  oldest  text  to  contain  such  refrains 
is  Guillaume  de  Dolcy  written  between  1210  and  1215, 
an  aristocratic  romance  describing  seigneurial  celebra- 
tions. This  romance  is  interspersed  with  lyric  frag- 
ments. Similar  lyric  fragments  came  to  serve  as  re- 
frains in  the  balletes,  to  be  referred  to  later. 


8  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

II 

DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  BALLADE 

The  word  ballade,  often  spelled  balade  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  was  derived  from  the  Provencal  term  balada. 
The  balada  was  itself  an  artistic  and  not  a  folk  dance- 
song.  In  Provence  the  term  was,  in  general,  used  to 
describe  almost  any  kind  of  artistic  dance-song,  irre- 
spective of  form,  and  was  not  applied  exxlusively  to 
any  single  kind.  The  best  known  balada  is  the  one 
which  begins  "A  I'entrada  del  terns  clar,"  and  belongs 
to  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Its  first  stanza, 
here  quoted,  illustrates  a  stage  in  the  development  of  the 
stanza  of  an  artistic  dance-song  similar,  probably,  to  that 
which  the  ballade  underwent.  The  stanza  is  here 
arranged  to  indicate  the  lines  sung  by  the  leader  and  the 
parts  in  which  the  chorus  joined: 


The  Soloist 

The  Chorus 

A  I'entrada  del  tems  clar 

Eya! 

Per  joia  recomengar 

Eya! 

E  per  jelos  irritar 

Eya! 

Vol  la  regina  mostrar 

Qu'el  es  si  amorosa 

CHORUS 

Alavi',  alavia,  jelos,  jelos 

Laissaz  nos 

Laissaz  nos 

Ballar  entre  nos,  entre  nos 


With  the  return  of  fair  weather,  runs  the  song,  the 
queen  of  the  festival,  that  she  may  savor  joy  once  more 
and  arouse  jealousy,  vaunts  her  love.  "Out  of  my 
way,  out  of  my  way,  jealous  creatures,"  she  cries;  "let 
us  carry  on   the   dance  and  dance   and  dance  by  our- 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  9 

selves."  These  words  may  well  have  lent  themselves 
to  dramatic  illustration. 

The  old  French  analogue  of  the  balada  was  called 
ballete^  a  compromise,  probably,  between  balada  and 
the  French  ballet^  a  diminutive  of  bal^  meaning  dance. 
These  balletcs,  also  artistic  dance-songs  composed  be- 
fore the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  were,  some 
of  them,  three-stanza  poems  with  refrains,  but  they 
presented  the  additional  feature  of  identical  rhymes  run- 
ning through  all  three  stanzas.  They  incorporated,  as 
has  been  said,  refrains  which,  copied  from  those  of 
traditional  poetry,  had  become  the  stock-in-trade  of  the 
trouveres.  At  least  one  hundred  and  eight  of  these 
balletes  are  contained  in  a  single  manuscript  which  is, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  place  where  the  word  has 
been  discovered.  The  surviving  balletes,  like  the  sur- 
viving examples  of  the  balada,  are  not,  in  reality,  popular 
poetry.  Though  there  are  other  and  longer  songs  in  the 
thirteenth  century  with  uniform  rhyme  schemes  through- 
out, there  seems  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  ballade 
took  its  three  stanzas  with  common  rhymes  and  refrains, 
from  the  ballets. 

The  earliest  ballades  are  found,  often  with  the  music 
to  which  they  were  sung,  in  the  romances  of  the  late 
thirteenth  and  early  fourteenth  centuries,  and  in  the 
works  of  Jehannot  de  Lescurel,  a  little-known  poet  of 
not  later  than  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
These  early  ballades  are  without  the  envoy  which  later 
became  a  regular  feature  of  the  fixed  form  and  fre- 
quently have  refrains  consisting  of  several  lines.  The 
reduction  of  the  refrain  to  one  line  came  about  grad- 
ually. As  early  as  1339  in  a  poem  mourning  the  death 
of  William,  a  count  of  Hainault,  which  is  called  ht 
Regret  Gu'illaume ,  there  are  thirty  ballades,  all  of  which 
have  a  single-line  refrain.  Five  show  seven-syllable 
lines;    thirteen,   eight-syllable   lines;    one,  nine-syllable 


10  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

lines;  and  eleven  used  the  ten-syllable  line.  Both  the 
frequent  use  of  the  ten-syllable  line  and  the  single-line 
refrain  show  that  the  writer,  Jehan  de  la  Mote,  belongs 
decidedly  to  the  generation  of  Deschamps.  It  was 
Deschamps  who,  before  dying  in  the  first  decade  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  composed  about  twelve  hundred  bal- 
lades, the  greater  number  of  which  showed  the  one-line 
refrain. 

In  Li  Regret  Guillaume,  the  hero,  who  is  a  trouvere, 
is  represented  as  hastening  to  a  fuy  d'amour  in  order  to 
submit  a  love  song.  It  was  indeed  in  these  very  fuys 
d'amour  and  in  the  earlier  religious  fuys,  both  poetic 
guilds  of  the  thirteenth  century  and  later,  that  the  bal- 
lade of  three  stanzas  with  common  rhymes  and  a  re- 
frain, came  to  be  diversified  and  complicated  in  line 
structure  and  rhyme.  In  the  fuys,  too,  the  envoy,  which 
had  hitherto  been  a  feature  of  several  kinds  of  songs, 
became  attached  to  the  ballade,  so  that,  after  the  opening 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  a  ballade,  whether  composed 
in  a  -puy  or  not,  almost  inevitably  contained  a  conven- 
tional address  to  the  Prince  in  the  first  line  of  the  envoy. 
These  same  fuys  saw  the  development  of  the  chant  royal, 
and  of  other  forms  with  envoy. 

The  history  of  the  word  fui  or  fuy  is  uncertain.  It 
has  been  derived  from  the  Latin  fodiu?n,  meaning  "ele- 
vation," and  in  this  sense  has  been  supposed  to  refer 
to  the  platform  on  which  the  officials  of  the  concourse 
sat.  Other  critics  have  derived  the  word  from  the 
name  of  the  town  in  Velay.  Some  of  the  supporters 
of  this  latter  theory  believe  that  pilgrims  from  every 
part  of  France  spread  the  fame  of  the  Virgin  of  Le 
Puy  in  Velay  until  numerous  religious  societies  named 
in  her  honor  sprang  up  in  northern  France.  Others  hold 
that  a  literary  society  actually  existed  in  the  town  of 
Le  Puy  which  was  the  model  for  similar  societies  in 
the  North.     Or  it  is  possible  to  consider  the  more  usual 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  11 

meaning  of  the  Latin  fodium,  namely  mountain,  and 
recall  the  allegory  of  Muses  residing  on  a  remote  peak. 
This  theory  supposes  that  the  term  fuy^  signifying  moun- 
tain, represented  to  religious  and  secular  poets  the  heights 
to  which  they  aspired  to  raise  the  subject  which  they 
were  treating.  As  early  as  1051,  there  was  authorized 
a  confrerie  of  minstrels  at  the  Sainte-Trinite  de  Fecamp 
in  Normandy.  According  to  their  charter,  the  purpose 
of  their  association  was  masses,  alms,  vigils,  and  prayers. 
Yearly  on  St.  Martin's  Day  they  walked  in  a  procession 
with  the  monks.  At  a  later  date  fuys  are  known  to  have 
existed  in  Valenciennes,  Arras,  Rouen,  Caen,  Amiens, 
Abbeville,  Dieppe,  Douai,  Cambray,  Evreu,  Lille, 
Bethune,  and  London. 

All  the  fuys  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  originally  re- 
ligious in  character.  Their  foundation  was  usually  at- 
tributed to  clerks  who  had  had  miraculous  visions  of 
the  Virgin.  Gradually  these  religious  fraternities 
evolved  into  literary  societies,  chambers  of  rhetoric,  and 
academies,  with  only  a  faint  coloring  of  their  religious 
purpose  left.  The  "confrerie  de  Notre-Dame  des 
Ardents"  at  Arras  claimed  to  go  back  to  the  Virgin's 
gift  of  a  healing  candle  to  two  minstrels  during  a  pest 
in  1 105.  Early  in  the  thirteenth  century,  so  the  account 
runs,  a  religious  guild  was  founded  at  Arras  in  memory 
of  this  miracle.  The  statutes  of  the  society  express  its 
purpose  to  save  the  "ardans  qui  ardoisent  du  fu  d'enfer," 
"those  brands  burning  in  the  fires  of  hell."  Every  mem- 
ber was  to  attend  the  meetings  held  three  times  a  year, 
to  pay  dues,  to  succor  his  comrades  in  poverty,  to  follow 
them  to  the  grave,  and  to  pay  a  forfeit  if  any  of  these 
duties  was  neglected.  In  this  society,  which  never  lost 
its  original  religious  character,  the  members  classified  as 
trouveres,  the  professional  poets,  were  held  first  in  dig- 
nity. In  this  fuy  at  Arras,  the  president  of  the  associa- 
tion was  called  "Prince,"  and  to  him,  as  representing 


12  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

the  whole  corporation,  the  envoys  of  poems,  composed 
before  and  after  the  vogue  of  the  ballade,  were  fre- 
quently addressed.  This  office  was  probably  elective,  and 
would  be  held  only  by  a  rich  man,  because  a  "Prince" 
was  expected  to  pay  the  expenses  of  any  dramatic  enter- 
prises, to  fee  the  clergy  who  officiated  at  ceremonies, 
and  to  entertain  generously.  The  brotherhood  of  the 
fuy  founded  in  London  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth 
century  or  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
was,  of  course,  modeled  on  these  French  confreries. 

The  English  society  received  from  the  city  great  privi- 
leges in  connection  with  the  Chapel  of  St.  Mary  near 
Guildhall,  which  was  built  toward  the  close  of  Edward 
I's  reign.  The  society  was  religious,  convivial,  and  lit- 
erary. Its  convivial  aspects,  feasts  and  processions,  seem 
most  prominent,  but  masses  and  almsgiving  and  a  yearly 
literary  contest  also  received  attention.  On  this  occa- 
sion a  crown  was  awarded  to  the  composer  of  the 
best  chancoun  reale,  probably  chant  royal.  Search  of 
promising  manuscript  collections  has  failed  to  reveal 
any  of  the  poems  presented  to  the  English  -puy.  It  is 
not  unlikely,  however,  that  both  the  ballade  and  the  chant 
royal  may  have  figured  in  its  latest  contests,  if  not  in 
English,  perhaps  in  French.  The  sessions  of  this  fuy 
seem  to  have  ceased  after  the  fourteenth  century. 

The  last  important  contribution  to  the  structure  of  the 
ballade  was  thus  the  envoy,  addressed  or  dedicated  to 
the  Prince,  which,  in  the  course  of  poetical  contests, 
was  added  in  the  fuys  in  the  late  fourteenth  century. 
Thereafter,  chambers  of  rhetoric  and  individual  poets 
might  vary  the  length  of  the  line,  contrive  elaborate 
rhyme  ornaments,  or  adapt  the  ballade  to  express  various 
ideas  and  perform  many  functions,  but,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  the  envoy,  the  form  was  fixed  in  its  essential 
features. 

The    ballade    took   roughly   about   four   centuries   to 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  13 

develop  from  an  indeterminate  dance-song  to  a  fixed 
verse  form.  The  structure  of  the  ballade  stanza  was 
complete  by  the  fourteenth  century.  We  get  an  idea 
of  what  the  various  stages  in  the  development  were 
from  the  balada  and  the  hallete.  To  the  latter  the 
ballade  owes  probably  its  three  stanzas  with  uniform 
rhyme  scheme  and  refrain.  Other  probable  contributions 
to  the  form  of  the  ballade  are  to  be  found  in  the 
chansonn'iersy  the  song  collections  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, which  contain  poems  with  identical  rhymes  run- 
ning through  a  number  of  stanzas;  there  were,  too,  espe- 
cially in  multi-stanza  poems  composed  for  presentation 
in  the  fuys,  envoys  in  which  trouveres,  judges,  and  other 
notabilities  were  addressed  by  name.  In  the  late  thir- 
teenth century,  three-stanza  refrain  poems,  with  the  same 
rhymes  throughout,  were  written  and  named  baladeSy 
and,  as  the  fourteenth  century  progressed,  the  refrains 
of  many  lines  that  had  characterized  the  ballade^  in  the 
romances  and  elsewhere,  were  generally  reduced  to  one 
line.  At  length,  at  the  close  of  the  same  century,  the 
envoy,  with  its  conventional  salute  to  the  "Prince,"  was 
annexed,  and  the  ballade  became  in  France  a  favorite 
poetic  type  for  at  least  two  centuries  to  come. 

The  ballade  in  the  late  Middle  Ages  captured  the 
taste  of  France  and  even  had  a  certain  vogue  in  England. 
In  the  former  country  from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
to  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  attained  in- 
credible popularity.  Moreover,  like  its  successor  in 
favor,  the  sonnet,  it  came  to  be  written  in  more  or  less 
closely  connected  sequences.  With  the  importation  into 
France  in  the  sixteenth  century  of  ideas  derived  ulti- 
mately from  the  literature  of  classical  antiquity,  the 
vogue  of  the  ballade  grew  less  pronounced  until  before 
the  nineteenth  century  it  was  more  or  less  sporadic  in 
French  literature.  Then  Theodore  de  Banville  was  the 
instrument  by  which  it  was  revived.     In  England  the 


14  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

ballade  vanished  with  the  generation  after  Chaucer,  not 
to  reappear  there  until  1873. 

When  once  the  poetic  guilds  of  Northern  France  had 
codified  the  requirements  for  a  ballade  such  as  Cyrano 
improvises,  the  essential  features  of  that  form  were  no 
longer  a  matter  of  device.  A  poet  who  set  out  to  write 
a  ballade  had  to  find  a  subject  which  could  be  treated 
in  a  kind  of  verse  distinguished  for  its  rigid  and  repeti- 
tious rhyme  scheme.  He  deliberately  limited  his  range 
of  ideas  by  his  decision  to  conform  to  elaborate  and 
definite  restrictions.  Technique  was  distinctly  his  prob- 
lem. The  success  of  his  ballade  depended  upon  his 
ability  to  submit  his  inspiration  to  an  inflexible  set  of 
fixed  metrical  requirements.  If  Chaucer,  Villon,  and 
Swinburne  succeeded  in  producing  ballades  that  are  great 
poetry,  it  is  because  they  found  the  form  uniquely  har- 
monious with  certain  ideas  which  they  wished  to  express. 

Ill 

THE  BALLADE  IN  FRANCE  FROM  THE  END  OF  THE 
FOURTEENTH  TO  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  SEVEN- 
TEENTH CENTURY 

It  would  take  a  long  time  and  much  space  merely  to 
enumerate  those  who  wrote  ballades  in  France  from  the 
end  of  the  fourteenth  to  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  But  there  are  certain  conspicuous  names  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  the  form. 
/  In  Guillaume  de  Machault's  (1300? -1377)  lifetime 
the  ballade  and  the  rondel  established  themselves.  He 
is  generally  considered  the  founder  of  the  school  of 
poetry  that  devoted  its  energies  to  the  fixed  forms.  His 
most  interesting  work,  Livre  du  Voir-dit,  a  tale  told  in 
prose  and  verse  of  a  disappointing  love  affair  that,  as 
an   old   man,   he   had   with   the  young  girl,   Peronnelle 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  15 

d'Armentieres,  contains  many  ballades  and  rondels.  His 
writings,  like  those  of  Deschamps  and  Froissart,  were 
known  to  Chaucer,  and  on  all  three  Chaucer  drew 
freely.  As  John  Livingston  Lowes  has  said:  "The 
Middle  Ages  .  .  .  had  practically  no  sense  whatever  of 
literary  property  as  we  conceive  it.  .  .  .  The  works  of 
other  men,  in  fact,  stood  on  practically  the  same  foot- 
ing to  a  writer  as  the  works  of  God." 

Eustache  Deschamps  ( 1345? -1405),  spoken  of  gen- 
erally as  a  disciple  of  Machault's,  not  only  holds  the 
record  for  the  number  of  ballades  composed  by  any  one 
individual,  but  is  also  credited  with  over  two  hundred 
rondeaus,  not  to  speak  of  his  tireless  exertions  in  the 
composition  of  longer  biographical  verse  and  satire.  He 
was  the  author,  too,  in  1392,  of  the  earliest  Poetics  in 
French,  UArt  de  Dict'ier  et  de  fere  changonSy  baladeSy 
vlrelalsy  et  rondeaulx. 

Jean  Froissart  (1338-1404?),  like  Deschamps  and 
Machault,  used  verse  for  autobiographical  purposes.  He 
lived  as  a  boy  in  Valenciennes  where  every  year  there 
was  a  fete  of  the  fuy  d^ amour ^  and  he  was  often  present, 
no  doubt,  as  the  contending  poets  submitted  their  verses 
to  be  judged  before  the  court  that  was  in  the  future 
to  crown  his  own  efforts.  When  he  went  to  the  court 
of  Edward  III  in  England,  he  took  with  him  letters 
of  introduction  to  Queen  Philippa.  For  her  court  he 
wrote  virelays  and  ballades.  Other  ballades  of  his  were 
written  to  be  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  lady  whom  he  wor- 
shipped with  all  the  shifts  of  courtly  love,  but  who  be- 
came permanently  alienated  from  him.  Froissart's  repu- 
tation rests  on  his  Chronicles  of  the  wars  of  his  own 
time,  annals  of  the  age  of  chivalry,  rather  than  on  his 
lyric  verse. 

Christine  de  Pisan,  woman  of  letters,  was,  in  spite 
of  her  name,  born  in  Venice  about  1363.  She  came  to 
France  as  a  youngster,   married  in   due   time,   and   at 


16  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

the  age  of  twenty-five  was  left  a  penniless  widow  with 
three  children.  Thereafter  she  had  to  earn  her  living  by 
writing.  Besides  her  serious  biographical  and  philosophi- 
cal works,  she  is  noted  for  her  delicate  love  verse  cast  in 
the  conventional  poetic  moulds  of  the  late  Middle  Ages. 

The  most  engaging  literary  figures  of  the  fifteenth 
century  are  Charles  d'Orleans  (1391-1465),  the  father 
of  Louis  XII,  and  Frangois  Villon  (1431-1470?),  the 
first  a  member  of  the  royal  house,  the  second  a  vaga- 
bond. When  Charles  appeared  at  Orleans  in  July,  1460, 
with  his  daughter  Marie,  then  three  years  old,  Villon 
was  released  from  prison  in  honor  of  the  occasion  and 
wrote  a  poetic  eulogy  comparing  the  little  girl  to  Cas- 
sandra, Echo,  Judith,  Lucrece  and  Dido. 

Charles  d'Orleans,  who  spent  twenty-five  years  as  a 
prisoner  in  England  after  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  re- 
turned to  France  in  1440  and  settled  at  Blois,  surround- 
ing himself  there  with  kindred  spirits  who  enjoyed 
matching  wits  in  the  composition  of  ballades  and  ron- 
deaus. The  writings  of  Charles  were  not  published  till 
the  eighteenth  century.  The  rondeaus,  especially  the 
lovely  and  often   translated  one,  beginning 

Le  temps  a  laissie  son  manteau 

De    vent,    de    froidure    et    de   pluye 

are  works  of  genius.  The  conjecture  that  Villon  once 
sojourned  at  Blois  with  the  royal  poet  is  based  on  a 
ballade,  attributed  to  Villon,  the  refrain  of  which  is 
the  famous,  "I  perish  of  thirst  at  the  fountain  brim," 
a  paradox  which  formed  the  basis  of  numerous  exercises 
in  the  fixed  forms  in  the  little  court  at  Blois. 

Villon,  prince  of  poets.  Bachelor  of  Arts  and  Master 
of  Arts  of  the  University  of  Paris,  spent  various  periods 
of  his  lawless  life  in  prison.  The  pardon  granted  him 
on  one  such  occasion  has  been  mentioned.  At  the  acces- 
sion of  Louis  XI  he  is  again  one  of  those  benefiting 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  17 

from  a  proclamation  of  amnesty.  Villon's  poetry,  espe- 
cially his  Testament,  makes  the  existence  of  that  fer- 
menting underworld  that  rose  to  the  surface  in  France 
at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  very  real.  In 
Le  Testament  (1461?),  Villon,  as  he  had  in  his  earlier 
poem  Les  Lais,  bequeaths  imaginary  satirical  legacies 
to  his  friends.  He  relates  also  his  wretched  plight  in 
prison  before  his  release  by  Louis  XI  and  confesses 
unreservedly  spiritual  anguish  and  loneliness  as  well  as 
physical  disabilities.  Several  of  Villon's  most  beautiful 
ballades  ornament  Le  Testament,  among  them  the  Bal- 
lade des  Dames  du  Tem^fs  Jad'is,  and  the  Ballade  four 
sa  Mere.  He  wrote  his  Ballade  des  Pendus  directly 
after  his  own  very  real  escape  from  the  gallows. 

The  versifiers  of  the  century  of  Charles  d'Orleans 
and  Villon  continued  to  use  the  forms  that  had  been 
bequeathed  to  them  by  the  medieval  fuys  and  poets. 
But  a  new  school  appeared  which  earned  the  name  of 
grands  rhetoriqueurs,  "rhetorique"  signifying  poetry.  If 
we  understand  by  decadence  the  phenomenon  of  over- 
ornamentation,  then  these  poets,  among  whom  might  be 
named  Jehan  Meschinot,  Octavien  de  Saint-Gelais  and 
Jean  Marot,  were  decadents.  The  tricks  of  metre  and 
decoration  which  they  practised  are  described  in  some 
detail  below.  The  impulse  to  the  movement  is  to  be 
discovered  in  the  work  of  Deschamps  and  Christine. 

Jean  Marot's  son,  Clement  Marot  (1495? -1544)  was 
brought  up  in  the  tradition  of  his  father's  school.  But 
his  expeditions  into  Italy,  his  sojourn  at  the  court  of 
Ferrara,  his  contact  with  the  intellectual  current  of 
the  Reformation  proved  liberating  forces.  He  did  write 
some  unsavory  rondeaus,  and  a  few  gracious  and  beauti- 
ful ballades,  tainted  neither  in  style  nor  subject  matter. 
But  they  were,  of  course,  incidental  to  his  more  sub- 
stantial and  characteristic  literary  preoccupations.  His 
quarrel  with  Frangois  Sagon  is  mentioned  here  because 


18  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

of  its  significance,  noted  below,  in  ballade  literature. 
All  the  notable  literary  men  of  the  day  took  a  hand 
in  the  fight  and  Sagon  seems  to  have  gone  down,  under 
the  cumulative  abuse  of  Marot  and  his  supporters. 

Treatises  on  poetry,  called  at  the  time  I'arts  de  seconde 
rhetorique,  were  numerously  produced  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  They  codified  the  practices  of  the  grands 
rhetoriqueurs  and  added  new  intricacies  of  rhyme  and 
metre  to  the  old  complications  prescribed  for  the  ballade 
and  rondeau.  With  the  coming  of  humanism  at  the 
outset  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  reference  to  the 
forms  became  infrequent  and,  if  the  authors  of  the  vari- 
ous arts  of  poetry  refer  to  them  at  all,  it  is  with  a 
contemptuous  gesture  of  dismissal.  The  French  poets 
of  the  Renaissance,  like  their  contemporaries  in  other 
countries,  renewed  themselves  by  their  study  of  the  lan- 
guages and  literatures  of  classical  antiquity,  but  they 
were  not  inclined  for  all  that  to  dispense  with  literature 
in  the  vernacular.  One  of  the  leading  spirits,  Joachim 
du  Bellay,  composed  the  Defence  et  Illustration  de  la 
Langue  Francaise  (1549).  Du  Bellay  belonged  to  the 
group  of  poets,  seven  in  number,  who  are  known  as  the 
Pleiade  '  Jean  Passerat,  inventor  of  the  villanelle,  is 
one  of  the  twenty-odd  writers  also  identified  with  the 
group. 

The  period  of  salons  begins  about  1618  under  the  aus- 
pices of  Mme.  de  Rambouillet  in  her  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet.  Circles  like  hers  where  witty  conversation  and 
the  composition  of  literary  trifles  were  in  order,  multi- 
plied. In  these  salons  developed  the  preciosity  that 
Moliere  was  later  to  satirize  under  slightly  differing 
guises  in  Les  Precieuses  Ridicules  and  Les  Femmes 
Savantes.  The  salons  flourished  throughout  the  seven- 
teenth century.  One  of  the  latest  of  the  frecleuses  was 
Mme.  Deshoulieres  (1637-1694)  who  wrote  ballades. 
Indeed  the   forms   had   a   temporary   revival.     Vincent 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  19 

Voiture  (1598-1648),  the  leading  spirit  at  the  Hotel 
de  Rambouillet,  produced  both  rondeaus  and  ballades. 
The  English  version  of  this  poem  of  his  on  the  con- 
struction of  the  rondeau,  was  given  earlier  in  these 
pages. 

Ma  foi,  c'est  fait  de  moi,  car  Isabeau 
-  M'a  conjure  de  hii  faire  un  rondeau. 
Cela  me  met  en  peine  extreme 
Quoi !  treize  vers,  huit  en  eau,  cinq  en  eme ! 
Je  lui  ferais  aussitot  un  bateau. 

En  voila  cinq  pourtant  en  un  monceau. 
Faisons-en  huit  en  invoquant  Brodeau, 
Et  puis  mettons,  par  quelque  stratageme: 

Ma  foi,  c'est  fait. 

Si  je  pouvais  encor  de  mon  cerveau 
Tirer  cinq  vers,  I'ouvrage  serait  beau; 
Mais  cependant  je  suis  dedans  I'onzieme: 
Et  si  je  crois  que  je  fais  le  douzieme. 
En  voila  treize  ajustes  au  niveau. 

Ma  foi,  c'est  fait. 

A  ballade  written  upon  his  death  repeats  the  refrain: 
"Voiture  est  mort,  adieu  la  muse  antique."  After  the 
seventeenth  century  the  forms  are  purely  incidental  till 
the  days  of  Banville. 

The  chief  of  the  forms,  the  ballade,  went  through 
many  phases  in  the  almost  three  hundred  years  from 
Machault  to  Moliere,  who  compared  it  to  a  faded 
ilower.  As  time  went  on,  not  only  did  it  become  diver- 
sified, but  there  accumulated  gradually  a  fund  of  bal- 
lade ideas,  which  was  steadily  drawn  on  from  the  days 
of  Lescurel  and  Deschamps  down  to  the  time  of  the 
Pleiade.  Ballades  were  occasionally  grouped  in  se- 
quences, and,  more  commonly  still,  became  a  favorite 
ornament  of  the  early  religious  and  secular  drama.  The 
ballade,  likewise,  continued  to  be  favored  by  poets  in 
the  ptysj  and  also  in  the  more  or  less  informal  poetical 


20  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

concourses  like  those  held  at  Blois,  under  the  auspices 
of  Charles  d'Orleans.  On  one  such  occasion  at  Blois, 
for  instance,  as  has  been  mentioned  in  connection  with 
Villon,  the  paradox,  "Je  meurs  de  soif  aupres  de  la 
fontaine,"  was  announced  as  the  refrain  for  ballades  to 
be  written  in  competition.  Charles  and  his  eleven  poet 
guests  tried  their  hand  on  ballades  based  on  this  idea. 
Then  eleven  of  his  friends  took  up  the  idea  and  de- 
veloped it. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  when  a  number  of  very  dif- 
ferent ideas  were  finding  expression  in  ballades,  there 
was  also  great  variety  within  the  form  itself.  Many 
things  could  be  done  with  a  type  of  poetry  the  only  fixed 
features  of  which  were  three  stanzas,  a  refrain,  the  same 
rhyme  scheme  in  every  stanza,  and,  under  some  cir- 
cumstances, an  envoy.  By  actual  count,  however,  the 
most  frequent  stanzas  were  either  that  of  eight  lines, 
made  up  of  octosyllabics  and  rhyming  a  b  a  b  b  c  b  c,* 
or  that  of  ten  lines  composed  of  decasyllabics,  rhyming 
ababbccdcd. 

One  ballade  has  been  discovered  in  a  late  fifteenth- 
century  manuscript  in  which  every  single  word  in  the 
thirty-two  lines  begins  with  a  "p."  At  an  early  date 
French  poets  taxed  their  ingenuity  in  turning  out  what 
may  well  be  called  freak  ballades.  Deschamps  and 
Christine  de  Pisan  were  both  guilty  of  trying  to  see  to 
what  strange  contortions  they  might  subject  this  poetic 
form.  A  Middle  English  rendering  of  one  of  Chris- 
tine's ballades  illustrates  the  device  of  beginning  every 
line  with  the  same  word. 

Alone  am  y  and  wille  to  be  alone 
Alone  withouten  plesere  or  gladnes 
Alone  in  care  to  sighe  and  grone 


*  "a"  represents  the  first  rhyme  of  the  first  stanza;   "b,"  the 
second  j     thus     in     Christine's     poem     one  =  "a" ;     nes  =  "b' 
ure  -  "C." 


->". 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  21 

Alone  to  wayle  the  deth  of  my  maystres 
Alone  which  sorow  will  me  neuyr  cesse 
Alone  y  curse  the  lyf  y  do  endure 
Alone  this   fayntith  me  my  gret  distres 
Alone  y  lyue  an  ofcast  creature 

Alone  am  y  most  wofullest  bigoon 
Alone  forlost  in  paynfule  wildirnes 
Alone  withouten  whom  to  make  my  mone 
Alone  my  wrecchid  case  forto  redresse 
Alone  thus  wandir  y  in  heuynes 
Alone  so  wo  worth  myn  aventure 
Alone  to  rage  this  thynkith  me  swetnes 
Alone  y  lyue  an  ofcast  creature 

Alone  deth  com  take  me  here  anoon 
Alone  that  dost  me  dure  so  moche  distres 
Alone  y  lyue  my  frendis  alle  ad  foon 
Alone  to  die  thus  in  my  lustynes 
Alone  most  welcome  deth  to  thi  rudenes 
Alone  that  worst  kan  pete  lo  mesure 
Alone  come  on,  y  bide  but  thee  dowtles 
Alone  y  lyue  an  ofcast  creature 

Alone  of  woo  y  haue  take  such  excesse 
Alone  that  phisik  nys  ther  me  to  cure 
Alone  y  lyue  that  willith  it  were  lesse 
Alone  y  lyue  an  ofcast  creature 

Deschamps  wrote  at  least  two  ballades  that  he  claimed 
in  the  title  might  be  read  in  eight  different  ways.  A 
mere  tour  de  force  of  a  different  variety  is  that  ballade 
of  Deschamps'  on  the  Bible.  Proper  names  have  cer- 
tainly at  times  contributed  to  the  effect  of  great  poetry, 
but  a  succession  of  stanzas  composed  almost  exclusively 
of  the  titles  of  the  books  of  the  Bible  proves  to  be  both 
dull  and  discordant. 

Jehan  Meschinot's  four  ballades  on  love  must  have 
been  very  difficult  to  put  together.  The  four  deal  sev- 
erally with  "amour  sodale,"  "amour  vertueuse,"  "amour 
f  olle,"  and  "amour  viceuse."    Each  is  composed  of  three 


22  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

stanzas  of  ten-syllable  lines  and  an  envoy  of  six  lines. 
After  the  fourth  syllable  of  every  line  there  is  an  abrupt 
break.  The  first  half  of  every  line  in  all  four  ballades 
associates  some  action  or  quality  with  love,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, "Amour  loue,"  "Amour  blame,"  and  in  all  four 
ballades  the  portions  of  lines  preceding  the  break  are 
identical.  The  second  part  of  the  line,  however,  changes 
in  every  ballade  according  to  the  special  character  of  the 
love  that  is  being  described.  Thus  the  first  half  of  the 
first  line  of  all  four  ballades  reads  "Amour  commande," 
"Love  enjoins";  in  the  poem  dedicated  to  the  love  which 
is  friendship,  the  line  concludes  with  the  words  "aux 
gens  estre  loyaux,"  "friends  to  be  loyal  to  one  another"  r, 
whereas  in  the  ballade  dealing  with  honest  love  between 
man  and  woman,  the  first  line  ends  with  the  simple 
command,  "aux  gens  estre  parfaits,"  in  other  words, 
"both  man  and  wife  to  be  perfect."  -^Acrostic  ballades 
were  not  uncommon.  The  envoy  of  Villon's  prayer  on 
behalf  of  his  mother  which  spells  out  his  name  reads 
thus: 

Fous  portastes,  Vierge,  digne  princesse, 
/esus  regnant  qui  n'a  ne  fin  ne  cesse. 
Le  Tout  Puissant  prenant,  nostre  foiblesse, 
iaissa  les  cieulx  et  nous  vint  secourirj 
Offrist  ?   mort  sa  tres  clere  jeunesej 
A^'ostre  Seigneur  tel  est,  tel  le  confesse. 
En  ceste  foy  je  vueil  vivre  et  mourir. 

The  ballade  in  dialogue  was  a  popular  diversion  with 
the  French  poets  of  three  centuries.  It  owes  some  of 
its  features  to  the  debat  of  earlier  French  poetry,  which 
arose,  doubtless,  from  a  very  simple  principle  of  social 
intercourse.  Some  such  early  literary  tradition  should 
account  for  the  frequent  use  of  dialogue  give-and-take 
by  ballade  writers.  At  any  rate  the  practice  was  com- 
mon. Sometimes  the  speakers  divide  the  line.  Some- 
times each  speaker  is  given  a  complete  line,  and  they 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  23 

alternate.  In  the  Cent  Ballades,  a  whole  ballade  is 
more  frequently  assigned  to  a  single  disputant.  Chris- 
tine, again,  in  Le  Livre  du  Due  des  Vrais  AmanSy  an 
English  version  of  which  has  recently  appeared,  has  a 
ballade  in  which  the  characters,  a  lady  and  her  lover, 
speak  in  alternating  stanzas.  An  amusing  debat  situa- 
tion is  found  in  two  seventeenth-century  ballades  by 
Mme.  Deshoulieres  and  M.  le  Due  de  Saint  Aignan. 
The  subject  under  discussion  is,  as  habitually  in  the  salons 
of  the  time,  love.  The  lady's  refrain  is  "On  n'aime 
plus  comme  on  aimoit  jadis,"  or  "Men  love  no  longer 
as  they  loved  of  yore,"  and  she  wishes  that  she  had  lived 
when  Amadis  was  young,  but  the  Duke  comes  back  with 
"Tante  j'aime  encore  comme  on  aimoit  jadis,"  or  "Men 
love  yet  as  they  loved  in  days  of  yore."  A  certain  type 
of  dialogue  popular  in  the  Middle  Ages  has  its  analogues 
in  ballade  literature.  The  older  conversations  between 
body  and  soul  appear  in  modified  form.  Deschamps  has 
a  ballade  consisting  of  a  conversation  between  the  head 
and  the  body.  Villon  has  a  ballade  which  is  a  Debate 
between  the  Heart  and  the  Body,  the  first  stanza  of 
which  'n  Payne's  translation  reads: 

What  is't  I  hear? — 'Tis  I,  thy  heart,  'tis  I 
That  hold  but  by  a  thread  for  frailty, 

I  have  nor  force  nor  substance,  all  drained  dry, 
Since  thee  thus  lonely  and  forlorn  I  see, 
Like  a  poor  cur,  curled  up  all  shiveringly. 

How  comes  it  thus? — Of  thine  unwise  liesse. — 

What  irks  it  thee?      /  suffer  the  distress. 

Leave  me  in  peace. — Why? — I  will  cast  about. — 

When  will  that  be? — When  I'm  past  childishness. — 
I  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 

Thus  the  form  of  the  ballade  became  more  and  more 
diversified.  Nevertheless,  whatever  external  features 
were  added  to  its  structure,  the  original  three  stanzas, 
identical  rhymes,  and  refrain  remained  unaltered.     The 


24  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

fund  of  ideas   from  which  those  who  used  the   form 
drew  was  fairly  limited. 

The  shaping  of  the  ballade  in  the  fuy  must  have 
meant  its  early  adaptation  to  religious  themes.  It  is 
not  surprising,  therefore,  to  find  French  poets  during 
three  centuries  piously  inclined  to  make  this  fixed  form 
do  service  for  prayer  and  praise.  There  is  Villon's 
prayer  made  to  the  Virgin  at  the  request  of  his  mother, 
given  here  in  Payne's  translation: 

Lady  of  Heaven,  Regent  of  the  earth. 

Empress   of  all  the   infernal  marshes  fell, 

Receive  me,  Thy  poor  Christian,  'spite  my  dearth, 
In  the  fair  midst  of  Thine  elect  to  dwell: 
Albeit  my  lack  of  grace  I  know  full  wellj 

For  that  Thy  grace,  my  Lady  and  my  Queen, 

Aboundeth  more  than  all  my  misdemean, 
Withouten  which  no  soul  of  all  that  sigh 

May  merit  Heaven.     'Tis  sooth  I  say,  for  e'en 
In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 

Say  to  Thy  Son  I  am  His, — that  by  His  birth 
And  death  my  sins  be  all  redeemable, — 

As  Mary  of  Egypt's  dole  He  changed  to  mirth 
And  eke  Theophilus',  to  whom  befell 
Quittance  of  Thee,  albeit  (So  men  tell) 

To  the  foul  fiend  he  had  contracted  been. 

Assoilzie  me,  that  I  may  have  no  teen, 
Maid,  that  without  breach  of  virginity 

Didst  bear  our  Lord  that  in  the  Host  is  seen. 
In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 

A  poor  old  wife  I  am,  and  little  worth : 

Nothing  I  know,  nor  letter  aye  could  spell: 

Where  is  the  church  to  worship  I  fare  forth, 

I  see  Heaven  limned,  with  harps  and  lutes,  and  Hell, 
Where  damned  folk  seethe  in  fire  unquenchable. 

One  doth  me  fear,  the  other  joy  serene: 

Grant  I  may  have  the  joy,  O  Virgin  clean. 
To  whom  all  sinners  lift  their  hands  on  high, 

Made  whole  in  faith  through  Thee  their  go-between. 
Tn  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  25 

ENVOI 

Thou  didst  conceive,  Princess  most  bright  of  sheen, 
Jesus  the  Lord,  that  hath  nor  end  nor  mean, 
Almighty,  that,  departing  Heaven's  demesne 

To  succour  us,  put  on  our  frailty, 
Offering  to  death  His  sweet  of  youth  and  green: 
Such  as  He  is,  our  Lord  He  is,  I  ween ! 

In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 

Jean  Marot  wrote  a  monologue  in  which  the  Virgin 
spoke  ballade-wise  on  the  day  of  her  assumption.  In  a 
ballade  written  by  his  son  Clement  the  familiar  parallel 
is  drawn  between  Christ  and  the  pelican  who  "pour  les 
siens  se  tue,"  who  "gives  His  life  that  His  own  may  re- 
ceive life."  There  are  ballades,  too,  that  treat  of  the 
ever  popular  seven  sins.  Closely  allied  to  the  religious 
ballades  in  tone  and  in  general  character  are  those  in 
which  the  various  aspects  of  death  are  treated. 

Probably    the    most    famous   ballade    ever   written    is 
Villon's  Des  Dames  dn  Temps  Jad'ts. 

Dictes  moy  ou,  n'en  quel  pays, 

Est  Flora,  la  belle  Rommaine, 

Archipiada,  ne  Tha'is, 

Qui  fut  sa  cousine  germaine; 

Echo,  parlant  quand  bruyt  on  maine 

Dessus  riviere  ou  sus  estan. 

Qui  beaulte   ot  trop  plus  q'u'humaine. 

Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

Ou  est  la  tres  sage  Hellois, 
Pour  qui  fut  chastrie  et  puis  moyne, 
Pierre  Esbaillart  a  Saint  Denis? 
Pour  son  amour  ot  cest  essoyne. 
Semblablement  ou  est  la  royne 
Qui  commanda  que  Buridan 
Fust  gecte  en  ung  sac  en  Saine? 
Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

La  royne  blanche  comme  lis, 
Qui  chantoit  a  voix  de  serainej 


26  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Berte  au  grant  pie,  Bietris,  AUisj 
Haremburgis  qui  tint  le  Maine, 
Et  Jehanne,  la  bonne  Lorraine 
Qu'Englois  brulerent  a  Rouanj 
Ou  sont  ilz,  ou,  Vierge  souvraine? 
Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

ENVOI 

Prince,  n'enquerez  de  sepmaine 
Ou  elles  sont,  ne  de  cest  an. 
Que  ce  reffrain  ne  vous  remaine: 
Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

This  refrain  illustrates  once  more  how  traditional  for- 
mulas are  transformed  into  new  and  glorious  poetry 
by  a  great  poet.  The  ubi  sunt  formula,  first  used  in 
sermons  and  didactic  poems,  was  soon  transferred  to 
hymns  and  songs,  and  thence  spread  from  Latin  versions 
to  the  vernacular.     St.  Bernard  inquired: 

Die  ubi  Salomon,  olim  tarn  nobilis? 
Vel  ubi  Samson  est,  dux  invincibilis? 
Vel  pulcher  Absalon,  vultu  mirabilis? 
Vel  dulcis  Jonathas,  multum  amabilis? 

At  least  three  of  Deschamps'  poems,  a  chant  royal  and 
two  ballades,  are  on  the  ubi  sunt  theme. 

Sainte-Beuve  makes  the  point  that  Villon's  real  con- 
tribution to  great  poetry  lies  not  so  much  in  the  con- 
ventional questioning  as  in  the  poignant  refrain,  "Mais 
ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan?"  But  it  has  been  shown 
that  even  these  magic  words  are  only  a  variant  of  a 
communal  refrain.  In  a  beautiful  Middle  English 
predecessor  of  the  great  ballade,  the  Luve  Ron,  in  re- 
sponse to  a  "maid  of  Christ"  who  asks  for  a  love  song, 
Thomas  de  Hales  cites,  as  so  many  warnings,  the  mis- 
erable fates  of  those  who  gave  themselves  to  love  and 
recommends  Christ  as  the  only  worthy  lover.  Though 
these  lines  lack  plainly  the  concentrated  lyric  sweetness 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  27 

of  Villon's  poem,  the  most  perfect  of  all  ballades,  they 
show,  after  all,  how  conventional  was  questioning  of 
this  sort.  An  analogue  of  Villon's  ballade  is  this  stanza 
from  the  Luve  Ron: 


Hwer  is  Paris  and  Heleyne, 

That  weren  so  bryght  and  feyre  on  bleo? 

Amadas,  Trist/am  and  Dideyne, 

Yseude  and  alle  theo? 

Ector  with  his  scharpe  meyne, 

And  Cesar  riche  of  worldes  feo? 

Heo  beoth  iglyden  vt  of  the  reyne, 

So  the  scheft  is  of  the  cleo. 


Villon  wrote  two  other  ballades  employing  the  ubi  sunt 
motive,  neither  of  which  is  a  masterpiece. 

Ballades,  adaptable  to  the  sober  purposes  of  religion 
and  death,  lent  themselves  easily  to  gnomic  uses.  More- 
over, the  proverb  as  a  line  unit  frequently  offered  a 
quick  solution  to  what  might  otherwise  have  been  a  diffi- 
cult rhyme  problem.  Proverbs  were  used  singly  or 
they  were  grouped  to  form  a  stanza.  But  the  stringing 
together  of  any  considerable  number  of  proverbs  was 
likely  to  produce  patter  rather  than  poetry.  That  prov- 
erbs should  have  been  introduced  into  ballades  was  to 
be  expected.  In  the  early  years  of  the  existence  of  the 
ballade,  there  was,  indeed,  the  medieval  affection  for 
sententious  wisdom  to  account  for  the  frequent  appear- 
ance of  the  proverb,  and  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries,  there  was  the  obsession  in  favor  of  rhetorical 
ornament  to  explain  the  presence  of  the  proverb  in  so 
many  places.  Proverbs  are  common  in  the  ballades  of 
Deschamps  and  also  in  those  by  his  contemporaries, 
Christine  de  Pisan  and  Froissart.  The  ballade  consist- 
ing of  nothing  but  proverbs  became  popular  after  Villon, 
his  Ballades  des  ProverbeSy  here  given  in  the  Payne  ver- 
sion, tempting  other  poets: 


28  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Goats  scratch  until  they  spoil  their  bed: 

Pitcher  to  well  too  oft  we  send: 
The  iron's  heated  till  it's  red 

And  hammered  till  in  twain  it  rend: 

The  tree  grows  as  the  twig  we  bend: 
Men  journey  till  they  disappear 

Even  from  the  memory  of  a  friend: 
We  shout  out  "Noel"  till  it's  here. 

Some  mock  until  their  hearts  do  bleed: 

Some  are  so  frank  that  they  offend: 
Some  waste  until  they  come  to  need: 

A  promised  gift  is  ill  to  spend: 

Some  love  God  till  from  church  they  trend: 
Wind  shifts  until  to  North  it  veer: 

Till  forced  to  borrow  do  we  lend: 
We  shout  out  "Noel"  till  it's  here. 

Dogs  fawn  on  us  till  them  we  feed: 

Song's  sung  until  by  heart  it's  kenned: 
Fruit's  kept  until  it  rot  to  seed: 

The  leagured  place  falls  in  the  end: 

Folk  linger  till  the  occasion  wend: 
Haste  oft  throws  all  things  out  of  gear: 

One  clips  until  the  grasp's  o'erstrained: 
We  shout  out  "Noel"  till  it's  here. 

ENVOI 

Prince,  fools  live  so  long  that  they  mend: 

They  go  so  far  that  they  draw  near: 
They're   cozened  till   they  apprehend: 

We  shout  out  "Noel"  till  it's  here. 

The  poetic  tendency  to  moralize,  which  led  a  writer 
of  ballades  often  to  lean  on  proverbs,  also  caused  him 
to  turn  to  fable  literature  and  to  the  fabrication  of  elab- 
orate animal  allegory.  Deschamps  wrote  a  number  of 
such  fable-ballades.  He  chose  subjects  like  Le  Paysan 
et  le  Serfenty  Le  Chat  et  les  Souris  and  Le  Reynard  et 
le  Corbeau.  The  ballade  of  Le  Lion  et  les  Fourm'is 
is  political  allegory  in  fable  guise.    The  ants  in  this  case 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  29 

are  the  thrifty  Flemings.  Mellin  de  Saint-Gelays,  son 
of  Octavien,  used  the  fable-ballade  in  behalf  of  Clement 
Marot  and  against  Frangois  Sagon,  who  had  attacked 
Marot,  by  describing  a  kite  in  mid  air  who  swoops  down 
and  fastens  his  talons  on  a  sleeping  cat.  The  inoffensive 
cat  is  Marot;  the  bird  of  prey  is  Sagon. 

One  of  the  favorite  diversions  of  aristocratic  society 
in  the  fifteenth  century  was  the  cultivation  of  courtly 
love,  the  code  of  which  had  been  developing  since  the 
early  Middle  Ages.  The  conventions  of  a  lover's  con- 
duct were  rigidly  prescribed,  and  all  well-regulated  ardor 
was  supposed  to  find  some  relief  in  decorous  poetic  de- 
votion. The  Courts  of  Love,  which  were  frequently 
held  on  St.  Valentine's  day,  or  on  the  first  of  May,  fur- 
nished the  occasion  for  love  ballades  with  their  set 
phrases  and  shallow  compliments.  The  ballades  of 
Machault,  Deschamps,  Froissart,  and  Charles  d'Orleans, 
are  for  the  most  part  expressions  of  these  familiar  for- 
mulas of  courtly  love.  So  are  the  ballade  sequences  pres- 
ently to  be  discussed;  so,  for  that  matter,  are  nearly  all 
the  ballades  composed  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries.  The  whole  subject  of  the  motives  and  modes 
of  courtly  love  is  involved  in  ballade  literature.  The 
allegory  of  these  ballades  concerned  with  courtly  love 
became  current  with  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  where  ab- 
stractions like  Dangler,  Esferance,  Nonchaloir,  were 
popularized,  and  where  the  example  of  great  lovers,  too, 
first  became  a  familiar  literary  resource. 

An  Englishman  who  wrote  French  poetry,  John 
Gower,  shows  in  all  his  ballades  familiarity  with  the 
subject.  Like  Charles  d'Orleans,  who  celebrated  St. 
Valentine's  day  in  his  ballades  and  rondeaus,  Gower  in- 
cludes in  his  Cinkante  Balades,  presented  to  Henry  IV 
of  England  on  his  coronation,  two  dedicated  to  the  rites 
of  the  fourteenth  of  February.  Letters  in  ballade  form 
repeat    conventional    love    terms.       Gower's    Cinkante 


30  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Balades  contain  three  love  letters  in  the  usual  epistolary 
Style  of  the  code.     In  one  case  he  concludes 

My  noble  lady,  this  note's  sure  to  find  you, 
If  God  so  wills,  I'll  follow  it  post  haste, 
These   lines   perhaps   will   hopefully   remind   you 
Sorrow  to  shun  and  present  joys  to  taste. 

Some  of  the  earliest  ballades  were,  as  has  been  noted, 
imbedded  in  romances  of  considerable  length.  In  the 
fourteenth  century  and  in  the  fifteenth,  too,  ballades  con- 
tinued to  be  interspersed  in  narrative  poems.  Thus,  in 
Froissart's  Le  L'tvre  du  Tresor  Amouretix  there  are  one 
hundred  and  twenty-eight  ballades,  arranged  in  three 
groups,  two  of  forty- four  and  one  of  forty,  all  of  which 
exhibit  a  unity  of  thought  and  feeling  in  that  their 
theme  is  "Dames,  d'amours  et  de  moralite,"  or,  in  other 
words,  chivalry.  The  chief  interest,  however,  for  the 
medieval  reader  lay  primarily,  we  may  suppose,  in  the 
narrative  into  which  the  ballades  were  introduced,  and 
not  in  the  ballades  themselves.  Other  poems,  too,  con- 
taining series  of  ballades,  might  be  cited,  such  as 
Machault's  Le  L'tvre  du  Voir-Dit,  Christine  de  Pisan's 
Le  Livre  du  Due  des  Vrais  AmanSy  and  Le  Prisonnier 
Desconforte. 

At  least  three  sequences  of  one  hundred  ballades  and 
one  group  of  fifty,  unconnected  with  other  verse  or  prose, 
were  composed  at  the  height  of  the  enthusiasm  for  the 
form.  There  were  the  Cinkante  Balades^  by  John 
Gower  in  French  verse,  two  centuries  by  "Chris- 
tine desolee,"  and  a  third  century  by  Jean  le  Seneschal. 
In  all  these  the  familiar  situations  and  sentiments  of 
courtly  love  figured  repeatedly. 

In  a  series  by  Christine  de  Pisan,  the  Cent  BalladeSy 
the  thought  connection  throughout  is  much  less  close  than 
it  would  be  in  a  characteristic  sonnet  sequence  of  the 
Elizabethans.  Her  Cent  BalladeSy  unlike  the  sonnet 
sequences,  are  on  a  variety  of  subjects  and  seem  to  have 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  31 

been  composed  at  long  intervals.  For  example,  the  first 
twenty  ballades  express  Christine's  personal  loss  in  the 
death  of  her  husband,  while  others  treat  the  general 
subject  of  love — knowledge  of  which  has  been  gained 
vicariously,  Christine  would  have  us  believe.  Gower's 
C'lnkante  Balades  belong  approximately  to  the  same 
period  as  Christine's  Cent  Ballades.  Like  hers,  they 
are  for  the  most  part  impersonal.  Various  favorite 
ballade  themes  are  treated.  Love  is  his  chief  business, 
however,  and  love  according  to  the  mode  of  the  age. 

In  contrast,  Les  Cent  Ballades  of  Jean  le  Seneschal 
have  considerable  plot.  In  his  own  person,  he  begins 
the  story:  One  day,  when,  as  a  young  man,  he  is  on 
the  road  between  Angers  and  les  Ponts-de-Ce,  he  meets 
a  knight.  This  older  cavalier,  seeing  that  the  young 
man  is  distracted  and  sad,  immediately  comes  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  is  in  love,  and  as  a  man  of  experience, 
he  lays  down  certain  rules  of  conduct  in  matters  of  love 
and  of  chivalry;  he  expounds  the  doctrines  of  love  and 
of  war  and  shows  how  real  happiness  in  love  lies  in 
loyalty.  This  advice,  given  in  the  first  fifty  ballades, 
the  pupil  promises  to  follow.  Almost  six  months  later, 
he  is  put  to  the  test.  On  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  company,  one  of  the  ladies  takes 
him  aside  and  taxes  him  with  his  ideal  of  faith  in  love. 
She  praises  the  charms  of  fickleness,  and  prophesies  that 
his  absurd  obstinacy  will  in  the  end  lead  to  his  utter 
boredom.  Finally,  dismayed  by  his  attitude,  she  sug- 
gests recourse  to  judges.  He  intimates  ironically  that 
the  case  is  merely  between  treachery  in  love  and  true 
faith.  But  the  lady  insists  that  he  states  the  question 
unfairly  and  that  true  happiness  in  love  lies  not  in  ex- 
alting constancy  too  highly  or  in  condemning  fickleness 
too  vociferously.  She  will  admit  no  disloyalty  to  any 
one  lover  in  a  multiplicity  of  lovers.  The  three  judges 
by  whom  the  debate  is  to  be  settled  hold  with  the  young 


32  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

man  that  loyalty  in  love  brings  the  only  true  happiness, 
whereupon  all  four  resolve  to  make  a  book  out  of  this 
joint  adventure.  Thus  Jean's  hundred  ballades  tell  the 
story. 

An  interesting  supplement  to  the  work  of  Jean  le 
Seneschal  is  the  little  series  of  thirteen  ballades,  the  an- 
swers of  as  many  amateurs,  who  undertook  one  side  or 
the  other  of  the  controversy.  Two  of  the  poets  support 
the  claims  of  fickleness;  seven  champion  constancy,  and 
four  take  an  amused,  slightly  skeptical  tone  with  no 
reference  to  the  real  issue. 

Satire,  in  the  centuries  in  which  the  ballade  flourished, 
was  largely  directed  against  the  frailties  of  the  Church 
and  of  the  court,  and  against  the  frivolities  and  follies 
of  the  ladies.  In  ballade  literature,  the  clergy  rarely, 
the  aristocracy  more  often,  and  the  feminine  sex  most 
often,  are  the  object  of  attack.  The  jargon  of  the 
lowest  grades  of  Paris  society  was  used  by  Villon  and 
by  many  other  poets  in  their  gross  attacks  on  gross  abuses. 
The  satirical  "sotte"  ballade,  nearly  always  expressed  in 
terms  of  unspeakable  indecency,  assailed  institutions  and 
individuals  indiscriminately.  Most  of  these  are  unprint- 
able, and,  because  of  their  dialect,  incomprehensible  to 
all  but  special  students  of  jargon  or  thieves'  patter. 

Many  of  the  satires  against  women  are  written  in  the 
language  of  the  gutter,  but  some  are  entrusted  to  the 
ordinary  vernacular.  Deschamps  has  a  balade  "contre  les 
femmes"  with  the  refrain,  "II  n'est  chose  que  femme  ne 
congomme."  Villon  spares  no  vicious  detail  in  the  Bal- 
lade de  la  Belle  Heaulm'iere  aux  Filles  de  Jo'ie.  And 
in  his  Ballade  de  Bonne  Doctrine  a  Ceux  de  Mauvaise 
Viey  his  refrain  is:  "Tout  aux  tauernes  &  aux  filles," 
"taverns  and  wenches  every  whit."  The  king  and  the 
court  were  naturally  in  a  position  to  be  treated  more 
tenderly  by  the  satirist,  though  in  the  twenty-five  ballades 
by  Meschinot  and  Chastellain,  appended  to  Les  Lunettes 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  33 

dg  Princes   of   Meschinot,   Louis   XI   is   the   object  of 
the  satire. 

French  history  also  finds  expression  in  ballades.  Both 
important  and  unimportant  events,  royal  marriages, 
treaties,  campaigns,  and  military  heroes,  furnished  at 
various  times  the  subject  matter  of  this  fixed  verse  form. 
Great  historical  poetry-  was  not  produced.  In  the  wealth 
of  ballades  furnished  by  Deschamps  we  find  one  on 
the  birth  of  Charles  VI  and  of  Louis  d'Orleans,  his 
brother;  another,  on  the  death  of  Bertrand  du  Guesclin 
(1380),  carries  the  refrain,  "Plourez,  plourez,  flour  de 
chevalerie,"  "Weep,  weep,  O  flower  of  chivalry";  still 
another,  on  the  peace  concluded  with  England  in  1394, 
uses  for  refrain,  "There  will  never  be  peace  till  Calais 
is  given  up."  Deschamps'  ballade  "sur  le  marriage 
de  Richard,  roi  d'Angleterre,  et  d'Isabeau  de  France" 
overlooks  the  sad  disparity  between  the  child  of  eight 
and  the  royal  widower.  A  well-known  historical  bal- 
lade has  for  its  subject  the  state  of  France  after  the 
battle  of  Agincourt  (1415).  Naturally  the  rivalry  be- 
tween Louis  XI  and  Charles  the  Bold  found  ballade 
expression,  too.  In  the  Chron'iques  de  Louis  XII  by 
Jean  d'Auton  are  several  ballades  dealing  with  the  failure 
of  the  King's  campaign  in  Naples  (1502-1504).  In 
1520,  the  gorg6<5iir  meeting  of  Francis  I  and  Henry 
VIII  on  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  was  celebrated 
in  a  ballade  by  Clement  Marot.  Later  Cardinal  Maza- 
rin  was,  as  might  be  expected,  the  object  at  times  of 
congratulation,  at  times  of  execration  in  ballade  litera- 
ture. 

IV 

BALLADES   IN   THE   DRAMA 

Sibilet,   the   sixteenth-century   critic,    wrote    in    1548 
that  ballades  and  rondeaus  were  to  be  found  in  farce. 


34  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

morality,  and  mystery  "as  thick  as  pieces  of  meat  in  a 
fricasee!"  His  statement  is  richly  illustrated  by  the 
ballades  in  the  fifteenth-  and  sixteenth-century  mysteries 
that  have  come  down  to  us.  Ballades,  like  the  triolets 
and  the  rondels  more  frequently  employed  in  the  mys- 
teries, were  used  as  adornments  of  the  text.  They  were, 
as  the  subject  matter  of  the  mysteries  would  suggest, 
for  the  most  part  prayers  to  the  deity  and  supplications 
to  Mary  for  her  intercession.  A  ballade  prayer  in  the 
Mystere  de  Sainte  Barbe  (fifteenth  century)  is  spoken 
by  Origines  and  three  companions.  A  ballade  without 
envoy  in  which  the  stanzas  are  similarly  distributed 
among  several  characters,  the  Magi,  in  this  case,  is  to 
be  found,  too,  in  Le  Mystere  de  la  Passion  d^Arnoul 
Greban. 

Occasionally  the  ballade  figured  as  a  prologue  to  the 
mystery.  The  prologue,  whatever  its  form  might  be, 
was  spoken  by  the  author,  by  a  member  of  the  com- 
pany, or  by  some  priest  not  a  member  of  the  company. 
The  purpose  of  such  a  prologue  was  to  fix  the  attention 
of  the  audience,  to  give  them  some  notion  of  the  plot, 
or  to  express  the  author's  humility.  The  prologue  in 
the  fifteenth-century  he  Mart'ire  de  Saint  Adrien  is 
spoken  by  a  priest.  Another  ballade  prologue  is  spoken 
by  an  actor  at  the  opening  of  the  mystery  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Puy  by  Claude  Doleson.  A  noteworthy  bal- 
lade prologue,  a  fifteenth-century  piece  of  "diablerie," 
introduces  Andre  de  la  Vigne's  St.  Martin  and  is  spoken 
by  Lucifer. 

These  lyric  passages  in  the  mysteries  were,  in  general, 
sung,  or,  at  any  rate,  were  declaimed  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  music.  In  view  of  the  intimate  connection  of 
the  ballade  forrhula  with  the  fuyy  another  circumstance 
in  the  presentation  of  the  mysteries  is  here  worth  not- 
ing: namely,  the  accepted  fact  that,  in  the' fourteenth 
century,  the  Miracles  de  Nostre  Dame  were  acted  at 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  35 

some  puy,  the  location  of   which  has  not  been   deter- 
mined. 

Ballades  continued  to  be  written  from  the  fourteenth 
century  to  the  seventeenth.  By  far  the  greater  number 
of  them  are  insignificant  as  literature.  They  exhibit  the 
sort  of  ingenuity  that  is  inconsistent  with  real  poetry. 
The  tricks  of  the  ballade  writers,  their  acrostics,  their 
word  plays,  made  the  form  a  kind  of  intellectual  game. 
The  satirical  ones  are  remarkable  for  bold  personalities. 
Francois  Villon  alone  in  these  three  centuries  produced 
ballades,  one  is  tempted  to  say  a  ballade,  of  great  beauty. 

These  poems  have  for  us,  therefore,  a  social  rather 
than  a  literary  interest.  In  them  for  three  hundred 
years  the  dominant  ideas  of  medieval  society  were  per- 
petuated. The  current  conceptions  of  love,  death,  and 
religion,  the  hand-to-mouth  wisdom  of  proverbs,  satire 
mordant  and  mild,  the  chronicle  of  marching  events, 
aristocratic  politics, — all  these  subjects  were  accepted 
as  within  the  proper  scope  of  the  ballade.  Of  particular 
interest,  too,  is  its  presence  in  the  religious  drama.  So 
many  of  the  mysteries  are  connected  with  fuys  that  it  is 
not  surprising  to  find  the  ballade,  itself  in  part  a  product 
of  the  fuyy  figuring  in  a  number  of  the  sacred  plays. 
The  ballade  was  thus  considered  equally  appropriate  for 
the  expression  of  sacred  or  profane  emotions. 

V 

THE   BALLADE   IN   THE   TREATISES  ON   POETRY 

The  fluctuating  esteem  in  which  the  ballade  and  the 
rondeau  were  held  is  reflected  in  the  rhetorico-poetical 
treatises  of  which  the  poets  and  critics  of  France  were  so 
prolific  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  These 
treatises  not  only  recorded  the  progress  of  the  forms 
and  the  practice  of  the  poets  who  had  used  them,  but  in 


36  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

some  cases  suggested  elaborate  innovations  or  novel  com- 
plications of  a  type  already  sufficiently  fixed  and  intricate. 
The  handbooks  of  poetics  that  multiplied  in  these  years 
are  very  generally  looked  upon  as  a  symptom  of  deca- 
dence. But,  in  the  case  of  the  ballade,  it  must  be  under- 
stood that  the  refinements  and  the  intricacies  suggested 
by  pedants  were  not  necessarily  accepted  generally  by 
the  poets.  Rhymsters  early  distorted  the  form  in  accord- 
ance w^ith  the  prescriptions  of  theorists;  but  Villon,  a 
man  of  some  education,  writing  after  at  least  four  of 
^ne  treatises  had  appeared,  transcended  their  theory  and 
produced  the  most  beautiful  ballades  in  literature. 

Deschamps'  UArt  de  D'lct'ier  (1392)  contains  the 
earliest  theoretical  discussion  of  the  ballade.  Its  neglect 
in  France  followed  the  invasion  of  ideas  from  Renais- 
sance Italy  and  the  rise  of  the  Pleiade.  Boileau's  pass- 
ing reference  to  it  in  his  Art  Poetique  (1675),  shows 
how  lightly  the  form  had  come  to  be  held  at  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  The  casual  mention  of  the  bal- 
lade by  this  critic  indicates  the  verdict  of  the  French 
classical  age  in  regard  to  this  form.  Between  1392  and 
1673  there  were  thirty  of  such  treatises  in  circulation, 
the  first  being  Deschamps'  UArt  de  Dict'ter  and  the  latest 
Boileau's  UArt  Poetique.  In  Le  Defence  et  Illustra- 
tion de  la  Langue  Francaise  (1549),  which  marked  Du 
Bellay  as  a  Renaissance  man,  vowed  to  the  building  up 
of  a  native  style  formed  by  classically  educated  taste,  he 
inveighs  against  ballades,  rondeaus,  chants  royal  and 
other  such  "condiments,"  as  he  calls  them,  as  an  evidence 
of  the  ignorance  of  his  predecessors. 

Before  Boileau,  the  classical  despot,  disposes  of  the 
ballade  as  a  form  that  owes  its  popularity  chiefly  to 
tricks  of  rhyme,  Moliere  in  Les  Femmes  Savantes, 
played  (1672)  the  year  before  Boileau's  set  of  rules 
appeared,  embodies  in  Trissotin's  fatal  phrase  the  timely 
verdict   of   the  seventeenth-century   man   of   letters   in 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  37 

regard  to  the  ballade.      Vadius  and  Trissotin  are  bandy- 
ing compliments: 

Trissotin 
Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  your  little  rondeaus. 

Vadius 
Nay,  but  your  madrigals  are  the  soul  of  wit. 

Trissotin 
Ballades  after  all,  though,  seem  to  be  your  specialty. 

Vadius 
Nobody  surpasses  you  when  it  comes  to  filling  up  lines. 

They  continue  to  outdo  each  other;   then: 

Vadius 
The  first  thing  you  know,  people  will  be  erecting  statues  to 
you.     Now   there's    this   ballade    of    mine,    I'd    like    to    read    it 
to  you  .  .  . 

Trissotin 
Just  a  minute,  have  you  seen  a  certain  little  sonnet  of  mine 
on  the  Princess  Uranie  who  fell  ill  of  a  fever? 

Vadius  admits  having  heard  the  sonnet,  but  declares  it 
to  be  trash  of  the  worst  kind.  At  this  they  fall  to 
quarreling.  Vadius  tries  to  propitiate  Trissotin  in  order 
that  the  ballade  may  be  read  aloud: 

Vadius 
Oh,   it   was   my   fault,    I    was   distracted,   or   perhaps    it    was 
badly  read.     But  to  change  the  subject,  here  is  my  ballade! 

Trissotin 
To    my   taste    the   ballade    is    nothing   but    a    faded    rose;    it's 
completely  out  of  date;   it  fairly  reeks  of  the  past. 

Vadius 
Nevertheless  the  ballade  still  appeals  to  many  people. 

Trissotin 
If  you  mean  pedants,  yes. 

Trissotin  is  speaking  for  his  age  when  he  says:  "La 
ballade  a  mon  goiit  est  une  chose  fade." 


56016 


38  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

VI 

THE    MIDDLE    ENGLISH    BALLADE 

In  all  probability,  it  will  never  be  explained  to  our 
entire  satisfaction  why  the  ballade,  which  had  met  with 
so  much  favor  in  France  and  which  won  its  way  with 
the  greatest  Middle  English  poet,  did  not  achieve  greater 
popularity  with  Chaucer's  contemporaries  and  successors. 
In  England,  the  fifteenth-century  man  of  letters  seems 
to  have  been  susceptible  to  a  variety  of  French  conven- 
tions, but  only  occasionally  did  he  feel  impelled  to  use 
the  form  that  in  France  had  become  a  favorite  means 
of  literary  expression.  France,  indeed,  had  seen  the 
production  of  ballades  by  the  thousands,  whereas  the  out- 
put in  England  does  not  exceed  two  hundred.  A  com- 
plete list  of  the  Middle  English  ballades  might  contain 
only  some  two  hundred  and  twenty  items,  but  even  these 
items  would  certainly  include  questionable  specimens  of 
the  type.  To  Chaucer  himself  are  attributed  with  con- 
siderable certainty  sixteen  genuine  ballades.  Lydgate  in- 
troduced the  form  into  the  Temple  of  Glas,  the 
Legend  of  Seynt  MargaretCy  and  the  Fall  of  Princes. 
He  also  wrote  ballades  independent  of  his  longer  poems. 
Hoccleve  seems  never  to  have  composed  a  true  ballade, 
although  the  character  of  his  seven-line  and  eight-line 
stanza  shows  how  familiar  he  must  have  been  with  the 
form.  Two  Middle  English  collections  of  ballades  are 
known,  namely,  the  series  that,  for  many  years,  went 
under  the  name  of  Charles  d'Orleans,  and  the  translation 
by  one  Quixley  of  John  Gower's  Tra'it'ie  four  Essemfler 
Les  Amants  Mariefz.  A  small  number  of  ballades  in 
print  have,  at  various  times,  been  attributed  to  Chaucer, 
or  to  one  or  another  of  his  followers.  Other  ballades, 
anonymous,  still  unprinted,  are  probably  to  be  unearthed 
in  English  and  in  Scottish  libraries. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  39 

In  Middle  English  the  rigor  of  the  French  form  is 
relaxed.  The  ballade  is  found  occasionally,  it  is  true, 
cast  in  the  mould  most  commonly  used  in  France.  For 
example,  Lydgate's  Flour  of  Courtesye,  with  its  three 
similar  stanzas  and  envoy  of  fewer  lines  than  the  stanzas, 
its  uniform  rhyme  scheme  and  refrain,  is  in  form  like 
hundreds  of  French  ballades.  But  many  of  the  Middle 
English  poems  are  three-stanza  ballades,  with  identical 
rhymes  and  refrains,  but  without  "envoys,  thus  resem- 
bling the  French  form  before  the  fuy  had  modified  it. 
Thus  the  ballade  in  Middle  English,  as  in  fourteenth- 
century  French,  may  or  may  not  have  an  envoy.  The 
envoy  may  be  of  fewer  lines  than  the  stanza  or  of  the 
same  number.  In  the  French  ballade  it  is  clear  that 
there  is  a  considerable  variety  in  line  structure,  but  in 
Middle  English,  on  the  contrary,  the  almost  invariable 
line  is  composed  of  ten  syllables. 

The  scribes  of  the  Lydgate  manuscripts  used  the  term 
balade  most  frequently  to  mark  the  stanzaic  lyric  of 
indefinite  length,  although,  as  we  have  seen,  this  poet 
produced  ballades  in  the  stricter  sense  of  the  word  as 
well.  Particularly  in  the  Fall  of  Princes  are  there  bal- 
lades of  seven-line  and  eight-line  stanzas,  with  and  with- 
out envoys. 

In  the  Prologue  to  the  Fall  of  Princes^  Lydgate  wrote : 

This  sayd  Poete  my  master  in  his  dayes 
Made  and  compiled  ful  many  a  frensh  dittie 
Complants,  ballades,   roundels,  vyrelayes 
Full   delectable  to  heare  and  to  se: 
For  whiche  men  should  of  ryght  and  equitie, 
Syth  he  in  englysh  in  making  was  the  best. 
Pray  vnto  God  to  geue  his  ioule  good  rest. 

And  with  lyrics,  wrought  in  the  French  fashion,  in 
honor  of  Love,  Alcestis  credits  Chaucer  in  both  versions 
of  the  prologues  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women. 


]     40  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  many  an  ympne  for  your  halydayes, 
That  highten  Balades,  Roundels,  Virelayes. 

The  "Virelayes"  have  vanished,  the  "Roundels"  survive 
in  four  specimens  only,  but  sixteen  "Balades"  are  still 
extant. 

Of  this  number,  two  are  compound  ballades,  namely, 
Fortune  and  The  Comfleynt  of  Venus.     Fortune  com- 
^ises  really  three  ballades.      The  most  striking  features 
of  the  poem  are  its  insistence  on  the  adequacy  of  the 
individual  to  cope  with  things;   the  challenge  contained 
in  the  line,  "for  fynally,  Fortune,  I  thee  defye";  and 
the  boast  that,  "he  that  hath  himself  hath  suffsaunce." 
One's  first  instinct  is  to  search  old  records  and  accounts 
to  discover  whether  Chaucer  did  "unlock  his  heart"  here 
with  a  ballade-key.     That  he  did  is  unlikely,  in  view 
of  the  conventional  treatment  of  Lady  Fortune  in  the 
Divine  Comedy y  in   the   Consolation   of  Philosofhy   of 
BoethiuSy  and  in  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.     It  was  one  of 
the  conventions  of  the   Middle  Ages  to  dwell   on  the 
revolutions  of  Fortune's  Wheel.     Plainly,  in  this  triple 
ballade,  Chaucer  was  making  use  of  a  popular  French 
verse   form;   he  was  using  it,  moreover,  to  incorporate 
ideas  derived  from  the  Rom,an  de  la  Rose,  and  from  the 
Consolation  of  Philosophy.     The  form  is  fixed  and  the 
ideas    in    the    main    are    medieval    commonplaces,    yet 
Chaucer's  dramatic  assertion  of  his  valiancy  in  the  face 
of  disaster  is  effective.      Chaucer's  other  triple  ballade, 
the    Comfleynt   of    VenuSy   differs   somewhat   in    form 
from  Fortune.     Only  the  envoy  is  Chaucer's.     The  bal- 
lades are  translations,  with  trifling  alterations,  from  the 
French. 

To  RoseTnounde  is  a  single  ballade.  The  refrain 
runs,  "Though  ye  to  me'  ne  do  no  daliaunce,"  and  re- 
fers to  the  aloofness  of  Rosemounde.  The  ballade  is 
familiar  verse  in  the  gayest  vein  with  mock  heroic 
touches: 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  M 

Nas  never  pyk  walwed  in  galauntyne 
As  I  in  love  am  walwed  and  y-wounde; 
For  which  ful  ofte  I  of  my-self  divyne 
That  I  am  trewe  Tristam  the  secounde. 

Again,  in  Truthy  or  the  Balade  de  Bon  Conseyl,  as  in  the 
case  of  Fortune^  the  main  source  of  the  poem  seems 
to  be  Boethius.     Indeed,  in  lines  8  and  9, 

Tempest  thee  noght  al  croked  to  redresse, 
In  trust  of  hir  that  turneth  as  a  bal, 

we  have  another  reference  to  the  medieval  conception 
of  Fortune's  v^^heel.     The  refrain, 

And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede, 

was  no  doubt  suggested  by,  "The  truth  shall  make  you 
free"  (/o/m,  viii,  32).  The  tone  of  the  Balade  de 
Bon  Conseyl  contrasts  strongly  with  the  tone  in  Fortune. 

That   thee    is   sent,   receyve   in   buxumnesse, 
The  wrastling  for  this  worlde  axeth  a  fal, 

is  the  expression  of  failure  and  discouragement;  it  is 
not  the  cry  of  one  who  would  say, 

I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 
The  best  and  the  last! 

The  ideas  in  Gentilesse,  a  Moral  Balade  of  Chauciery 
as  in  the  case  notably  of  Fortuney  presented  themselves 
to  Chaucer's  mind  from  the  Consolation  of  Philosophy 
and  from  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  Chaucer  took  his 
theory  of  Gent'ilcsse  from  contemporary  standards,  yet 
his  application  of  the  theory  is  his  own. 

In  hak  of  Stedfastnesse  Chaucer  used  the  French 
form  with  an  animus  different  from  that  found  in  his 
other  ballades.    In  Fortuney  in  Truthy  and  in  Gentilesse^ 


0 


42  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

he  uses  the  ballade  seriously,  it  is  true,  but  in  Lak  of 
Stedfastncsse  he  makes  it  a  means  of  expressing  the 
social  confusion  and  the  unrest  of  his  day.  The  refrain, 
"That  al  is  lost  for  lak  of  stedfastnesse/'  occurs  at 
the  end  of  all  the  stanzas,  but  appears  as,  "And  wed 
thy  folk  agein  to  stedfastnesse,"  at  the  end  of  the  e-nvoy. 
According  to  one  manuscript,  "This  balade  made  Geffrey 
Chauciers  the  Laureall  Poete  of  Albion  and  sente  it 
to  his  souerain  lorde  kynge  Richarde  the  secounde  thane 
being  in  his  Castell  of  Windesore."  It  is  believed  to 
have  been  written  in  the  later  years  of  Richard  II's 
reign,  when  he  was  outraging  the  people  by  his  acts  and 
policies.  If  the  poem  was  dispatched  to  the  king  at 
this  epoch  in  his  activities,  the  sentiments  of  the  envoy 
were  certainly  timely.  Chaucer,  as  has  often  been  re- 
marked, only  occasionally  reflects  the  social  discontents 
of  his  day;  his  outlook  on  life  is  plainly  not  that  of 
a  professional  reformer,  but  certainly  in  this  ballade 
he  pauses  to  analyze  the  source  of  evil  in  his  age.  If  the 
general  idea  of  the  ballade  be  taken  from  Boethius,  one 
can  only  say  that  the  old  philosopher's  Consolation  fur- 
nished Chaucer  merely  with  a  point  of  departure. 
r  The    envoy    of    The    Compleynt    of   Chaucer   to   his 

Emfty  Purse  is  usually  considered  the  last  piece  of  writ- 
ing done  by  Chaucer,  for  it  contains  a  direct  appeal  to 
Henry  IV,  who  was  accepted  by  Parliament  September 
30,  1399;  as  a  result  of  the  poet's  appeal,  he  was  in 
all  probability  granted  an  additional  forty  marks  yearly 
on  October  third  or  thirteenth  of  the  same  year.  A  sim- 
ilar complaint  was  addressed  to  the  French  king,  John  II, 
by  Guillaume  de  Machault  in  1351-6,  in  short  rhymed 
lines,  but  Chaucer  may  more  likely  have  been  imitating 
a  similar  ballade  appeal  made  by  Eustache  Deschamps 
after  the  death  of  Charles  V  of  France,  and  the  accession 
of  Charles  VI,  who  had  promised  Deschamps  a  pension 
but  failed  to  keep  his  promise. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  43 

Against  Wo7ncn  Unconstant^  or  Newfanglenessey  as 
it  is  also  called,  uses  the  refrain,  "In  stede  of  blew,  thus 
may  ye  were  al  grene."  It  i^n  adaptation  of  Machault's, 
"Qu'en  lieu  de  bleu,  Dame,  vous  vestez  vert."  Beside 
this  similarity,  the  French  and  the  English  ballade  are 
alike  in  stanza  form  and  in  the  absence  of  an  envoy. 
But  they  are  dissimilar  in  tone.  Chaucer  grimly  arraigns 
a  lady  in  the  whole-souled  fashion  so  popular  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ao-es,  when  satire  alternated  with  adulation,  whereas 
Machault's  reproaches  are  without  spirit  in  comparison, 
and  his  theme  is  the  theatrical  havoc  wrought  in  his  con- 
stitution by  the  fickleness  of  his  dame. 

In  1894  was  printed  what  is  generally  accepted  as  a  r^^ffj 
genuine  Chaucerian  ballade,  Womanly  Noblesse.  The 
envoy  and  each  of  the  three  stanzas  end  differently. 
If  this  ballade  be  Chaucer's,  he  certainly  departs  widely 
from  his  usual  custom  of  following  closely  the  fixed 
French  form.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  transcending 
form  if  the  artistic  problem  is  to  restrain  the  develop- 
ment of  the  theme  by  the  exigencies  of  a  certain  fixed 
type.  Chaucer,  if  it  be  Chaucer,  certainly  gained  noth- 
ing by  the  looseness  of  construction  in  his  poem.  To  a 
fifteenth-century  reader  it  must  have  been  annoying  to 
be  disappointed  of  a  refrain  at  the  end  of  every  stanza. 

In  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women 
occurs  what  is  probably  the  best  known  of  Chaucer's 
ballades.  The  ballade  appears  in  both  versions  of  the 
Prologue.  In  one  version,  the  refrain  runs,  "Alceste  is 
here,  that  al  that  may  desteyne";  in  the  other,  "My 
lady  Cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne."  The  most 
striking  feature  of  the  poem  is  its  use  of  proper  names. 
The  French  ballade  writers,  as  has  been  pointed  out, 
conventionally  introduced  these  lists,  which  were  in  real- 
ity a  medieval  device,  for  throwing  a  glamor  of  romance 
about  the  subject.  There  is  a  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween the  ballade  of  Chaucer's  here  reprinted  and  that 


44-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

aae_Qf  Machault's  which  begins  with  a  refererice  to 
Absalon  and  the  refrain  of  which  is,  "J^  ^^7  assez,  puis 
que  je   voy  ma  dame." 

Hyd,  Absolon,  thy  gilte  tresses  clere; 
Ester,  ley  thou  thy  mekneese  all  a-dounj 
Hyd,  Jonathas,  al  thy  frendly  manere; 
Penalopee,  and  Marcia  Catoun, 
Mak  of  your  wyfhod  no  comparisounj 
Hyde  ye  your  beautes,  Isoude  and  Eleyne, 
My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

Thy  faire  body,  lat  hit  nat  appere, 

Lavyne;  and  thou,  Lucresse  of  Rome  toun, 

And  Polixene,  that  boghten  love  so  dere, 

And  Cleopatre,  with  al  thy  passioun, 

Hyde  ye  your  trouthe  of  love  and  your  renoun; 

And  thou,  Tisbe,  that  hast  of  love  swich  peynej 

My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne 

Herro,  Dido,  Laudomia,  alle  y-fere. 

And  Phyllis,  hanging  for  thy  Demophoun, 

And  Canace,  espyed  by  thy  chere, 

Ysiohile,  betraysed  with  Jasoun, 

Maketh  of  your  trouthe  neyther  boost  ne  sounj 

Nor  Ypermistre  or  Adriane,  ye  tweyne; 

My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

The  ballade  in  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good 
Women  resembles  also  in  substance,  function,  and  treat- 
ment, a  ballade  in  Froissart's  Paradys  D^ Amours.  These 
ballades  of  Chaucer  we  must  still  assume  to  be  the 
earliest  English  examples  of  that  verse  form,  although 
the  temptation  is  strong  to  suspect  the  genial  members 
of  the  English  fuy  of  having  composed  ballades  ante- 
dating Chaucer's.  He  knew  the  poetic  practice  of  his 
famous  French  contemporaries.  This  familiarity  is  evi- 
denced not  only  by  his  own  use  of  the  form,  but  more 
often  by  his  imitation  of  French  ballades  in  his  other 
poems.      He  wrote  his  ballades  with  conscious  artifice. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  45 

although  he  heeded  the  form  of  the  French  models  with 
infinitely  less  care  than  Austin  Dobson  and  his  followers 
who  reintroduced  the  ballade  into  English  in  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Chaucer  plainly  was  not  sufficiently 
attracted  to  the  form  to  do  more  than  trifle  with  it. 
Ballades  by  the  thousand  were  not  for  him.  His  bent 
was  quite  obviously  toward  narrative  rather  than  lyric 
poetry,  and  his  predilection  may  have  helped  to  cut  short 
the  English  career  of  the  ballade. 

The  ballade  in  che  hands  of  Chaucer's  successors  never 
rose  above  mediocrity.  The  most  telling  influence  of  the 
French  ballade,  indeed,  from  the  time  of  Chaucer,  was 
on  the  structure  of  the  English  stanza.  The  popularity 
of  the  seven-line  stanza,  rhyming  a  b  a  b  b  c  c,  and 
of  the  eight-line  stanza,  rhyming  ababbcbc,in  both 
England  and  Scotland,  and  the  great  Spenserian  stanza 
itself  is  due  to  the  repeated  use  of  these  stanzaic  forms  by 
the  French  ballade  writers,  to  Chaucer's  interest  in 
these  stanzas,  to  his  metrical  experiments,  and  to  the 
fidelity  of  his  imitators.  Lydgate's  ballades  outnumber 
Chaucer's,  but  he  is  even  less  bound  than  Chaucer  by 
the  French  formulas.  Lydgate  used  the  ballade,  as 
Chaucer  is  not  known  to  have  done,  as  the  conclusion 
or  envoy  of  longer  poems.  Ballades  appear  thus  in  the 
Fall  of  Princes,  and  are  found  fulfilling  the  same  func- 
tion at  the  conclusion  of  the  Flour  of  Courtcsye,  at  the 
end  of  the  Serfent  of  Division,  and  again  after  the 
Legend  of  Seynt  Margarete  and  the  Temple  of  Glas. 
Lydgate's  other  ballades  occur  as  separate  lyrics. 

Lydgate's  ballades  add  nothing  to  his  reputation  as 
a  poet.  In  only  one  of  them  does  he  follow  the  form 
with  comparative  fidelity,  namely,  in  the  envoy  of  the 
Flour  of  Courtesye,  and  in  only  one  of  them,  the  ballade 
to  the  Virgin,  have  we  verse  of  any  beauty.  The  ballades 
that  serve  as  envoys  are  merely  dull  and  repetitious.  A 
study   of   Lydgate's   ballades   but   emphasizes   the    con- 


+6  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

elusion  that  the  ballade  never  ceased  to  be  an  exotic 
in  Middle  English  literature,  and  that  it  owes  its  chief 
importance  to  its  effect  on  the  English  stanza. 

The  authorship  of  a  number  of  Middle  English  bal- 
lades remains  to  be  determined.  Among  these  the  most 
important  are  translations  of  the  poems  of  Charles 
d'Orleans  and  of  certain  other  French  poets,  printed 
for  the  Roxburge  Club  in  1827  as  the  English  Poems 
of  Charles  d'Orleans.  It  has  been  conjectured  on 
slender  evidence  that  these  translations  were  made  by 
William  de  la  Pole,  first  Duke  of  Suffolk  (1396-1450), 
known  to  have  been  a  friend  of  "le  doulx  seigneur," 
as  Villon  called  Charles  d'Orleans. 

The  life  of  the  ballade  in  Middle  English  is  probably 
less  than  one  hundred  years,  extending  as  it  does  from 
the  last  twenty  years  of  the  fourteenth  century,  when 
Chaucer  was  making  first  trials,  to  not  later  than  the 
seventies  of  the  following  century.  The  courtly  makers 
of  the  reigns  of  the  Early  Tudors  were  not  ballade 
writers.  There  are  few  names  connected  with  its  his- 
tory: of  those  Chaucer  and  Lydgate  are  the  chief. 
Chaucer's  ballades  stand  out  as  superior  to  all  in  poetic 
quality,  though  even  their  merit  is  uneven.  Lydgate's 
adaptation  of  the  form  to  the  purposes  of  religion  did  not 
produce  a  ballade  worthy  to  be  compared  to  Villon's 
prayer.  As  for  the  translations  from  the  French  of 
Charles  d'Orleans,  they  retain  only  in  a  measure  what- 
ever charm  is  possessed  by  the  originals.  That  a  student 
of  fifteenth-century  writers  finds  much  that  is  curious 
rather  than  beautiful,  has  long  been  a  commonplace  of 
literary  criticism.  The  ballade  of  that  century  is  no 
exception;  it,  too,  is  for  the  most  part  curious  rather 
than  beautiful.  The  discursiveness  of  the  age,  the  ten- 
dency then  prevalent  to  compose  prolonged  verse  narra- 
tives, the  scarcity  of  rhyme  words  in  Middle  English, — 
all  these  circumstances  were  obstacles  to  the  further  de- 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  47 

velopment  of  the  ballade.  Though  it  is  probably  true 
that  the  stanzaic  structure  of  both  English  and  Scottish 
poetry  was  modified  by  the  various  types  of  French  bal- 
lade stanzas,  the  form  itself  languished  in  England  for 
about  three  hundred  years.  After  Chaucer,  for  that 
matter,  the  ballade  was  not  conspicuously  successful  until 
the  days  of  Austin  Dobbon,  Edmund  Gosse,  Swinburne 
and  Andrew  Lang. 

VII 

THE   CHANT   ROYAlJ 

A  form  closely  related  to  the  ballade  also  developed 
in  the  fuy.  The  outstanding  features  of  the  chant  royal 
are  its  five  eleven-line  stanzas  rhyming  ababccdd 
e  d  e,  its  envoy  likewise  rhyming  d  d  e  d  e,  and  its 
refrain  used  six  times  as  the  last  line.  The  chant  royal 
was  in  every  respect  a  ballade  except  in  the  number  of 
stanzas  and  in  the  fact  that  the  examples  that  have 
come  down  to  us  do  not  show  so  wide  a  variety  in  stanza 
length.  The  term  royal  in  the  name  of  a  poem  seems 
to  refer  to  the  fact  that  it  was  originally  composed  for 
rendering  before  a  prince  of  the  fuy. 

Deschamps  is  one  of  the  earliest  to  use  the  chant  royal. 
He  has  left  us  an  example  of  the  ubi  sunt  variety.  He 
goes  breathlessly  through  five  stanzas  inquiring  of  the 
whereabouts,  among  others,  of  Samson,  Hippocrates, 
Plato,  Orpheus,  Ptolemy,  Djedalus,  Alexander,  Saladin, 
Methuselah,  Virgil,  Julius  Cssar,  Scipio  Africanus,  King 
Arthur,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and  spares  time  even  to 
investigate  the  present  location  of  Judith,  Esther,  Penel- 
ope and  Semiramis,  whose  place  in  a  stanza  is  perilously 
close  to  St.  Peter's  and  St.  Paul's. 

Clement  Marot  stands  out  as  the  most  finished  ver- 
sifier to  employ  the  form.     The  chants  royal  of  Marot 


48  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

are  often  allegorical  in  character,  the  key  to  the  allegory 
being  given  in  the  envoy.  Of  such  a  nature  is  Marot's 
chant  royal  on  the  Immaculate  Conception  written  in 
1520.  The  Christian  Chant  Royal,  here  quoted,  ^s 
throughout  the  length  of  its  five  stanzas  and  envoy  a 
sermon  on  the  moral  life.  The  antithesis  is  drawn  be- 
tween human  greed  for  possession  and  human  greed  for 
knowledge,  and  the  poet  promises  that  the  sinful  man 
will  perish  like  straw  in  the  fires  of  Hell  unless  man 
strive  to  be  sound  alike  in  soul  and  body. 

Qui  ayme  Dieu,  son  regne  et  son  empire, 

Rien  desirer  ne  doibt  qu'a  son  honneur: 

Et  toutesfois  I'homme  tousiours  aspire 

A  son  bien  propre,  a  son  aise,  et  bon  heur, 

Sans  adviser  si  point  contemne  ou  blesse 

En  ses  desirs  la  divine  noblesse. 

I.a  plus  grand'part  appete  grand  avoir: 

La  moindre  part  souhaite  grand  s^avoir; 

L'autre  desire  etre  exempte  de  blasme, 

Et  l'autre  quiert  (voulant  mieulx  se  pourvoir) 

Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame. 

Ces  deux  souhaitz  contraires  on  peult  dire 
Comme  la  blanche  et  la  noire  couleur; 
Car  Jesuchrist  ne  promet  par  son  dire 
Ca  bas  aux  siens  qu'ennuy,  peine  et  douleur. 
Et  d'autre  part  (respondez  moy)   qui  est-ce 
Qui  sans  mourir  aux  Cieulx  aura  liesse? 
Nul  pour  certain.      Or   fault-il  concevoir 
Que  mort  ne  peult  si  bien  nous  decevoir 
Que  de  douleur  ne  sentions  quelque  dragme 
Par  ainsi  semble  impossible   d'avoir 
Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame. 

Doulce  sante  mainte  amertume  attire, 

Et  peine  au  corps  est  a  I'ame  doulceur. 

Les  bienheureux  qui  ont  souffert  martyre 

De  ce  nous  font  tesmoignage  tout  seur. 

Et  si  I'homme  est  quelque  temps  sans  destresse, 

Sa  propre  cher  sera  de  luy  maistresse, 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  49 

Et  destruira  son  ame  (a  dire  voir) 

Si  quelque  ennuy  ne  vient  rainentevoir 

Le  povre  humain  d'invoquer  Dieu,  qui  I'ame, 

En  luy  disant:  Homme,  penses-tu  veoir 

Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame? 

O  doncques,  Homme  en  qui  sante  empire, 

Croy  que  ton  mal  d'un  plus  grand  est  vainqueur; 

Si  tu  sentois  de  tous  les  maux  le  pire, 

Tu  sentirois  Enfer  dedans  ton  cueur. 

Mais  Dieu  tout  bon  sentir  (sans  plus)  te  laisse 

Tes  petis  maulx,  sachant  que  ta  foiblesse 

Ne  pouvant  pas  ton  grand  mal  percevoir 

Et  que  aussi  tost  que  de  I'appercevoir 

Tu  periroys  comme  paille  en  la  flamme, 

Sans  nul  espoir  de  jamais  recevoir 

Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame. 

Certes  plutost  un  bon  pere  desire 
Son  filz  blesse  que  meurdrier,  ou  jureur: 
Mesmes  de  verge  il  le  blesse,  et  descire, 
Affin  qu'il  n'entre  en  si  lourde  fureur. 
Aussi  quand  Dieu,  pere  celeste,  oppresse 
Ses  chers  enfans,  sa  grand'bonte  expresse 
Faict  lor  sur  eulx  eau  de  grace  pleuvoir; 
Car  telle  peine  a  leur  bien  veult  prevoir 
A  ce  qu'enfer  en  fin  ne  les  enflamme, 
Leur  reservant  (oultre  I'humain  devoir) 
Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame. 

ENVOI 

Prince  Royal,  quand  Dieu  par  son  povoir 
Fera  les  Cieulx  et  la  Terre  mouvoir, 
Et  que  les  corps  sortiront  de  la  lame, 
Nous  aurons  lors  ce  bien,  c'est  a  sgavoir, 
Sante  au  corps  et  Paradis  a  I'ame. 

Ulnfortune  in  Ulnstruct'tf  de  la  Seconds  Rhetorique 
(1500)  explained  that  the  chant  royal  was  above  all 
others  the  poem  especially  adapted  to  royal,  noble  or 
majesterial  subjects,  that  it  was  the  best  possible  vehicle 
for  all  serious  themes.     He  described  the  poets  as  vying 


so  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

with  one  another  in  the  composition  of  chants  royal  in 
the  fi^y  in  order  to  gain  the  prize.  Sibilet,  in  1548,  wrote 
that  the  chant  royal  was  nothing  but  a  ballade  super- 
imposed upon  a  ballade.  He  explained  the  term  by  say- 
ing that  it  was  called  royal  since,  because  of  its  grandeur 
and  majesty,  it  was  particularly  suitable  to  be  sung  in  the 
presence  of  royalty,  especially  since  its  special  function 
was  to  praise  princes  and  potentates,  mortal  and  immor- 
tal. Deschamps,  the  earliest  theorist  on  the  forms,  de- 
fines the  chant  royal  substantially  as  it  is  written  at  the 
present  time,  as  a  five-stanza  poem  of  ten,  eleven  or 
twelve  lines,  no  especial  number  being  prescribed,  with 
an  envoy  beginning  with  an  address  to  the  prince  and 
identical   rhymes  running   throughout. 

Jehan  Molinet,  in  his  UArt  de  Rhetorique,  cites  a 
chant  royal  that  was  crowned  at  the  fuy  at  Amiens  in 
1470.  The  chant  royal  and  the  ballade  became  favorite 
forms  with  the  poets  of  the  fuy.  The  chant  royal 
seems  to  have  been  the  wholly  sophisticated  artifice  of 
poetic  contrivers  who  were  familiar  with  the  songs  of 
the  trouveres  and  with  the  early  ballades,  whereas  the 
ballade  originated  outside  of  the  fuy  and  was  adapted 
to  the  circumstances  under  which  poetic  contests  were 
held. 


VIII 

THE  RONDEAU   IN   FRANCE 

Among  the  fixed  verse  forms  the  rondeau  belongs 
with  the  ballade  in  point  of  age.  Though  lifted  into 
literature  as  an  artistic  dance-song,  it,  too,  has  its  roots 
in  the  primitive  past  of  the  French  folk.  In  its  earliest 
form  it  was  made  up  probably  of  single  lines  alternating 
with  the  refrain.  Later,  the  line  was  increased,  first 
to  a  stanza  of  two  lines  and  then  to  a  more  extended 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  51 

stanza,  and  one  or  more  of  the  lines  was  adapted  to 
rhyme  with  the  refrain.  The  word  rondel,  which  is 
the  earlier  form  of  the  word  rondeau,  just  as  in  the 
French  language  chapel  is  the  earlier  form  of  the  word 
chafeauj  means  simply  a  song  used  as  the  accompaniment 
to  a  ronde  or  round  dance.  The  earlier  refrains  in- 
corporated in  rondeau.^,  like  those  incorporated  in  the 
ballade,  were  two  lines  in  length.  In  the  very  earliest 
rondels  they  may  represent  fragments  of  folk  poetry. 
The  following  stanza  of  Guillaume  d'Amiens,  who  lived 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  approximates  the  earliest  type 
of  stanza  built  up  in  the  course  of  choral  song: 

Hareu!  commant  m'i  maintendrai 
Qu'Amors  ne  m'i  laissent  durer? 

Apansez  sui  que  j'en  ferai; 
Hareu!  commant  rri't  m-aintendrai? 

A  ma  dame  consoil  prendrai 
Que  bien  me  le  savra  doner. 
Hareu!  comtnant  mH  maintendrai 
Qu'Amors  ne  mH  laissent  durer? 

The  sense  of  this  ancient  French  poem  is  that  the  pains 
of  love  are  so  great  that  the  lover  does  not  know  how 
he  is  going  to  bear  up  under  them,  but  being  completely 
at  a  loss  he  will  go  to  his  lady  for  consolation  and  she 
will  know  how  to  give  him  peace.  An  analysis  of  this 
poem  shows  that  it  falls  into  three  stanzas,  a  first  stanza 
of  two  lines,  a  second  stanza  of  a  single  line  followed 
by  the  first  line  of  the  first  stanza  forming  a  refrain, 
and  a  third  stanza  containing  as  many  lines  as  there 
are  in  the  first  stanza  with  all  of  the  first  stanza  serving 
at  the  end  as  a  refrain.  The  earliest  literary  rondels 
are  those  of  the  thirteenth-century  poets,  Guillaume 
d'Amiens  and  Adam  de  la  Halle,  whose  name  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  -puy  at  Arras,  but  there  are  older  types 


52  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

represented  in  thirteenth-century  romances  like  the 
Roman  du  Chastelaln  de  Coucy  and  Adenet's  Cleomades. 
In  the  fourteenth  century,  outside  of  the  drama,  the  ron- 
deau became  less  a  musical  composition  than  a  poem. 

In  Deschamps'  Art  de  Dict'tcr  there  are  three  kinds 
of  rondeaus  differentiated.  The  first  kind,  which  he 
calls  a  simple  rondeau,  is  exactly  in  structure  like  the 
little  poem  of  Guillaume  d'Amiens  given  above.  It  is 
a  poem  of  eight  lines  w^ith  a  refrain  of  two  lines  at 
the  beginning,  with  the  first  line  of  the  refrain  re- 
peated as  the  fourth  line,  and  with  a  two-line  refrain 
serving  again  as  the  seventh  and  eighth  lines,  the  rhyme 
scheme  being  AB*aAabAB.  This  earliest  form 
of  rondel  has  persisted  since  the  thirteenth  century,  but 
it  has  gone  ever  since  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century 
under  the  name  of  triolet,  by  which  it  is  known  to-day. 
The  second  type  which  he  describes  was  used  in  the 
fourteenth  century  only.  It  was  a  poem  of  thirteen 
lines,  the  first  stanza  consisting  of  a  three-line  refrain, 
the  second  stanza  of  two  lines  plus  the  first  two  lines 
of  the  refrain,  and  the  third  stanza  consisting  of  three 
lines  plus  the  complete  refrain,  the  rhyme  scheme  run- 
ning A  B  A/a  b  A  B/a  b  a  A  B  A,  or  A  B  B/a  b  A  B/ 
a  b  b  A  B  B.  It  is  illustrated  in  this  little  elegy  of 
Eustache  Deschamps  on  the  death  of  a  man  young  in 
years  but  old  in  knowledge: 

Juenes  d'aage,  vieux  de  science, 
Expers  en  tout  ce  c'om  puet  dire, 
Vo  mort  fait  maint  cueur  plorer  d'ire, 

Preudons  de  bonne  conscience, 
Larges,  sans  nul  homme  escondire, 
Juenes  d'aage,  vieux  de  science, 
Expers  en  tout  ce  c'om  puet  dire. 

*  Capitals  designate  the  rhymes  at  the  end  of  refrain  lines. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  53 

Horns  plains  de  toute  sapience, 
Vaillans  pour  garder  un  empire, 
Par  vo  mort  mainte  chose  empire, 
Juenes  d'aage,  vieux  de  science, 
Expers  en  tout  ce  c'om  puet  dire, 
Vo  mort  fait  maint  cueur  plorer  d'ire. 

The  third  type  which  Deschamps  discusses  is  called  the 
double  rondeau.  It  is  a  poem  of  sixteen  or  seventeen 
lines  rhyming  ABB  A/a  b  B  A/a  b  b  a  A  B  B  A,  or 
ABC  D/a  bcAB/abcdABCD.  This  poem, 
also  by  Deschamps,  is  probably  intended  to  conform  to 
the  sixteen-line  double  rondeau, 

Joyeusement,  par  un  tresdoulx  joir, 
En  joyssant  menray  vie  joyeuse, 
Comme  celui  qui  se  doit  resjoir 
Et  joye  avoir  en  la  vie  amoureuse; 

Se  joyeux  sui,  chascuns  le  puet  oir 
A  mon  chanter;  tresplaisant,  gracieuse, 
Joyeusement,  far  un  tresdoulx  joir, 
En  joyssant  menray  <vie  joyeuse. 

Rien  ne  me  faut  quant  je  vous  puis  veir, 
Tresdouce  fleur,  nouvelle  et  precieuse; 
Si  veil  courroux  et  tristece  fuir. 
Chanter  pour  vous  et  de  voix  doucereuse: 
Joyeusement,  far  un  tresdoulx  joir, 
En  joyssant  menray  vie  joyeuse, 
Comme  celui  qui  se  doit  resjoir 
Et  joye  avoir  en  la  vie  amoureuse. 

the  lines  being  dedicated  to  the  praise  of  a  life  spent  in 
joyous  preoccupations  in  the  company  of  the  beloved. 

The  evolution  of  the  rondel  from  an  eight-line  poem 
to  a  poem  of  twice  that  number  of  lines  was  accom- 
plished by  the  process  of  adding  one  or  more  lines  either 
to  the  refrain  or  to  the  body  of  the  poem,  more  prob- 
ably to  the  latter,  since  the  multi-line  refrain  is  older 
than  the  single-line  refrain.     Out  of  the  one  hundred 


54  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

and  seven  rondeles  amoureuses  composed  by  Froissart, 
one  hundred  and  six  are  of  the  "simple"  variety,  but 
Christine  de  Pisan,  whose  artifice  as  a  maker  of  ballades 
has  been  illustrated,  took  the  first  step  in  reducing  the 
refrain.  She  did  not  hesitate  to  prolong  the  first  stanza 
of  the  rondeau  as  this  quotation  shows: 

Pour  attraire 
Vostre  amour, 
Et  moy  traire 
De  doulour 
Me  vueil  traire 
Vers  vous,  flour, 
Sanz  retraire 
Nuit  lie  jour. 

But  she  began  the  practice  of  repeating  half  of  the 
refrain  at  the  end  of  the  second  stanza.  The  poem  that 
follows  exhibits  the  abbreviation  of  the  final  refrain. 

A  DIeu,  ma  dame,  je  m'en  vois; 
Cent  fois  a  vous  me  recommande, 
Je  revendray  dedens  un  mois. 

Plus  ne  verray  a  ceste  fois 
Vo  beauhe  qui  toudis  amende; 
A  Dieu,  ma  dame,  je  m'en  vois. 

Et  de  voz  biens  cent  mille  fois 
Vous  remercy,  Dieu  le  vous  renfle, 
Ne  m'oblies  pas  toutefois; 
A  Dieu,  ma  dame,  je  m'en  vois. 

The  terms,  simple  rondeau  and  double  rondeau  con- 
tinued to  be  used  in  the  fifteenth  century.  A  new  type 
of  double  rondeau  came  into  existence,  however,  one 
which  had  more  than  four  lines  in  the  first  stanza. 
The  double  rondeau  of  Deschamps,  such  as  has  been 
described,  came  to  be  known  in  the  fourteenth  century 
as  the  quatrain  rondeau,  the  most  famous  example  of 
which  is  the  enchanting 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  55 

Le  temps  a  laissie  son  manteau 
De  vent,  de  froidure  et  de  pluye, 
Et  s'est  vestu  de  broderie 
De  souleil  luyant,  cler  et  beau. 

II  n'y  a  beste  ne  oyseau 
Qu'en  son  jargon  ne  chante  ou  crie: 

Le  temps  a  laissie  son  manteau 
De  vent,  de  froidure  et  de  pluye. 

Riviere,  fontaine  et  ruisseau 
Portent  en  livree  jolie 
Gouttes  d'argcnt  d'orfavreriej 
Chascun  s'abille  de  nouveau. 

Le  temps  a  laissie  son  manteau 
De  vent,  de  froidure  et  de  pluye, 
Et  s'est  vestu   de  broderie 
De  souleil  luyant,  cler  et  beau. 

John  Payne's  version  is  close  to  the  original. 

The  year  has  cast  its  wede  away 

Of  rain,  of  tempest  and  of  cold, 

And  put  on  broidery  of  gold 
Of  sunbeams  bright  and  clear  and  gay. 
There  is  no  bird  or  beast  to-day 

But  sings  and  shouts  in  field  and  fold, 
The  year  has  cast  its  wede  away 

Of  rain,  of  tempest  and  of  cold. 

The  silver  fret-work  of  the  May 
Is  over  brook  and  spring  enscrolled, 
A  blazon  lovely  to  behold. 

Each  thing  has  put  on  new  array: 

The  year  has  cast  its  wede  away 
Ot  rain,  of  tempest  and  of  cold. 

This  Middle  English  version  of  a  French  quatrain  ron- 
deau is  also  of  interest: 

Bewere,  my  trewe  innocent  hert, 
How  ye  hold  with  her  aliauns, 
That  somtym  with  word  of  plaisuns 
Resceyved  you  under  covert. 


56  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Thynke  how  the  stroke  of  love  comsmert 
Without  warying  or  deffiauns. 
Bewere,  my  trewe  innocent  hert, 
How  ye  hold  with  her  aliauns. 

And  ye  shall  pryvely  or  appert 
See  her  by  me  in  love's  dawns, 
With  her  faire  femenyn  contenauns 
Ye  shall  never  fro  her  astert. 
Bewere,  my  trewe  innocent  hert. 
How  ye  hold  with  her  aliauns. 

The  themes  which  Charles  d'Orleans  favored  for  the 
rondeau  were  courtly  love,  the  fair  land  of  France,  and 
the  beauty  of  spring.  The  process  of  increasing  the 
number  of  lines  m  the  rondeau  went  on  until  we  find 
among  the  works  of  Charles  d'Orleans  himself  ron- 
deaus of  eighteen  lines.  In  the  fifteenth  century,  in 
general,  refrains  grew  shorter  and  stanzas  longer.  The 
tendency  was  marked  to  reduce  the  multi-line  refrain  to 
two  or  perhaps  to  one  line,  but  the  early  type  did  con- 
tinue in  the  works  of  Charles  d'Orleans  and  in  the 
drama. 

Frangois  Villon,  the  other  commanding  figure  in 
French  poetry  in  the  fifteenth  century,  made  little  use 
of  the  rondeau,  but  the  one  which  occurs  in  his  Testa- 
ment has  ravished  many  poets  and  has  been  ex  juisitely 
translated  into  English  by  Rossetti. 

Mort,  j'appelle  de  ta  rigueur. 
Qui   m'as  ma  maistresse  ravie, 
Et  n'es  pas  encore  assouvie, 
Se  tu  ne  me  tiens  en  langueur. 
One  puis  n'euz  force  ne  vlgueur; 
Mais  que  te  nuysoit-elle  en  vie, 
Mort? 

Deux  estions,  et  n'avions  qu'ung  cueurj 
S'il  est  mort,  force  est  que  devie. 
Voire,  ou  que  je  vive  sans  vie, 
Comme  les  images,  par  cueur, 
Mort! 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  57 

From  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  on,  the  refrain 
of  the  rondel  became  steadily  shorter  so  that  instead 
of  repeating  a  refrain  of  two  lines  or  even  a  refrain 
of  one  line  after  the  second  stanza  and  after  the  last 
stanza,  the  first  word  only  was  repeated,  or  sometimes 
the  first  phrase.  This  circumstance  is  probably  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  scribes  instead  of  writing  out  the  full 
refrain  followed  the  line  of  least  resistance  and  set 
down  only  the  first  word  or  the  first  two  or  three  words, 
allowing  the  readers  who  knew  the  rondeau  forms  well 
to  supply  the  rest  for  themselves.  But  after  a  while, 
of  course,  the  readers  forgot  the  character  of  the  scribes' 
abbreviation  and  identified  the  abbreviated  refrain  as  the 
refrain.  So  it  came  about  that  with  the  exception  of 
the  simple  rondel,  or,  as  it  was  now  called,  the  triolet, 
all  forms  of  the  rondel  were  now  written  with  the  first 
word  or  words  of  the  first  line  serving  as  unrhymed  re- 
frains after  the  eighth  and  after  the  thirteenth  line 
respectively,  for  it  was  the  rondeau  of  thirteen  lines  with 
the  two  unrhymed  refrains,  called  by  the  French  theorists 
on  poetry  rentrements ,  that  became  the  standard  form 
of  the  rondeau  for  all  time. 

In  connection  with  the  history  of  the  ballade  it  was 
noted  that  the  various  forms  of  the  rondeau  were  uni- 
versally to  be  found  in  the  religious  drama  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  In  the  thirty-six  Miracles  de  Nostre  Dame  there 
are  sixty-eight  examples  of  the  form.  They  vary  in 
length  from  eight  to  twenty-one  lines.  A  simple  rondel 
is  spoken  jointly  by  the  archangels  and  God  in  Le 
Mistere  du  Vtel  Testament. 

Michel 
Vray  Dieu,  regnant  en  mageste, 
Du  tout  vous  voulons  obeyr. 

Gahr'tel 
Nous  ferons  vostre  voulente, 
Vray  Dieu  regnant  en  mageste. 


58  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Dieu 
En  gloire  de  felicite 
Convient  les  sainctz  cieulx  resjouyr. 

Rap/iael 
Vray  Dieu  regnant  en  mageste, 
Du  tout  vous  voulons  cbeyr. 

In  the  mouth  of  an  angel  is  put  a  rondel  of  the  dis- 
tinctly fourteenth-century  variety  in  the  Miracle  de  Saint 
Valentine. 

Dame,  far  qui  grace  et  merci 
Acquierent  li  cuer  refentant. 
Qui  vraiement  sont  lamentant 
Des  deffaultes  qu'il  ont  fait  ci, 
Puis  qu'a  vous  en  sont  dementant, 
Dame,  far  qui  grace  et  merci 
Acquierent  li  cuer  refentant. 
Nous  Savons  bien  qu'il  est  ainsi, 
Ne  nulz  n'en  doit  estre  doubtant; 
Car  vous  pouvey  troplus  que  tant, 
Dame,  far  qui  grace  et  merci 
Acquierent  li  cuer  repentant 
Qui  vraiement  sont  lamentant. 

In  the  miracles  and  mysteries  the  rondels  were  always 
sung. 

Clement  Marot,  pre-eminent  for  his  ballades  and 
chants  royal,  is  the  author  of  some  of  the  loveliest 
rondeaus  that  French  literature  has  to  show.  Most  often 
quoted  is  his 

Au  bon  vieulx  temps  un  train  d'amour  regnoit 
Qui  sans  grand  art  et  dons  se  demenoit, 
Si  qu'un  bouquet  donne  d'amour  profonde, 
C'estoit   donne   toute   la  Tcrre   ronde, 
Car  seulement  au  cueur  on  se  prenoit. 

Et  si  par  cas  a  iouyr  on  venoit, 
Sgavez-vous  bien  comme  on  s'entretenoit? 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  59 

Vingt  &ns,  trente  ans:  cela  duroit  un  monde 
Au  bon  vieulx  temps. 

Or  est  perdu  ce  qu'amour  ordonnoit: 
Rien  que  pleurs  fainctz,  rien  que  changes  on  n'oyt 
Qui   vouldra  done  qu'a  aymer  ie  me  fonde, 
II  faut  premier  que  I'amour  on  refonde, 
Et  qu'on  la  meine  ainsi  qu'on  la  menoit 
Au  bon  vieulx  temps, 

which  George  Wyndham  has  translated  as 

In  good  old  days  a  mode  of  loving  reigned 
With   no   great  art   nor   offerings  sustained, 
So  that  a  nosegay  given  of  love  sincere. 
Was  an  endowment  with  the  whole  earth's  sphere, 
For  save  the  heart  all  else  was  then  disdained. 

And  if  by  chance  the  joys  of  love  were  gained, 
Know  you  how  such  good  hap  was  entertained? 
It  lasted  on  and  on,  from  year  to  year 
In  good  old  days. 

Now  all  is  lost  that  love  of  old  ordained. 
We  have  but  changes  and  tears  falsely  feigned. 
If  then  ye  will  that  love  I  should  revere. 
You  first  must  furnish  love  with  other  gear 
And  use  the  manner  of  it  men  maintained 
In  good  old  days. 

Vincent  Voiture  shares  with  Marot  the  distinction  of 
excelling  in  the  rondeau.  He  was  so  fluent  in  the  form 
that  he  was  not  afraid  to  say 

Si  vous  vouliez  qu'on  vous  parlast  d'Amour, 
Je  vous  ferois  cent  Rondeaux  chaque  jour." 

There  are  twenty-five  rondeaus  in  his  works  printed  at 
Brussels  in  1687.  He  was  past  master  of  the  art  of 
playing  with  the  meaning  of  the  refrain  and  giving  it 
new  and  daring  significances,  as  this  altogether  delicious 
example  of  his  work  shows: 


60  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Cinq  ou  six  fois  cette  nuit  en  dormant, 
Je  vous  ay  vue  en  un  accoustrement 
Au  prix  duquel  rien  ne  me  sgauroit  plaire, 
La  Juppe  estoit  d'une  opale  tres-claire, 
Et  vostre  robe  estoit  un  diamant. 

Rien  n'est  si  beau  dessous  le  firmament. 
L'astre  du  jour  brille  moins  clairement, 
Et  vous  passiez  sa  lumiere  ordinaire. 
Cinq  ou  six  fois. 

Que  le  sommeil  nous  trompe  vainement! 
Par  I'aventure  en  ce  mesme  moment, 
Vous-vous  trouviez  en   estat  bien   contraire, 
Mais  a  propos,  comment  va  cette  affaire? 
Avez  vous  bien  este  tout  doucement. 
Cinq  ou  six  fois? 

In  the  days  of  the  Pleiade,  the  rondeau,  having  earned 
the  scorn  of  Du  Bellay  and  his  colleagues,  was  banished. 
Guillaume  Colletet  tells  us  in  the  final  pages  of  his 
treatise  on  the  sonnet  that  when  the  Palinode  of  Rouen 
was  reorganized  under  the  authority  vested  in  the  princes 
and  members,  by  a  bull  of  Pope  Leo  X,  in  1597,  it  was 
ordered  that  henceforth  the  sonnet  should  take  the  place 
of  honor  previously  enjoyed  by  the  rondeau,  and  that  the 
rondeau  was  no  longer  to  be  considered  in  order  in  the 
Puy  de  Rouen.  This  was  so  much  the  case,  that  Voiture, 
writing  to  a  friend  in  1638,  said  in  his  letter,  "I  can't  be 
sure  whether  you  know  what  a  rondeau  is.  I've  done 
three  or  four  that  have  fired  the  wits  to  try  their  hand  at 
them.  It's  a  kind  of  verse  that  lends  itself  very  well 
to  raillery."  About  this  date  the  rondeau  was  reintro- 
duced, Voiture  himself  carrying  on  the  tradition  of  light 
verse  handed  down  by  the  trouveres.  Voiture  used  the 
thirteen-line  form,  which  has  been  considered,  as  has 
been  before  observed,  a  standard  form  in  France.  The 
rondeau  flourished  in  the  salons,  in  a  society  much  like 
that    described    in     Moliere's    Les    Femmes    Savantes. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  61 

Corneille,  the  great  dramatist  himself,  composed  two. 
In  1676,  a  writer  by  the  name  of  Benserade  actually 
turned  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid  into  rondeaus, 
putting  even  his  table  of  errata  into  that  form.  He 
cannot  be  held  solely  responsible  for  this  enormity,  since 
the  idea  is  said  to  have  originated  with  the  King.  A 
few  rondeaus  were  written  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV. 
but  the  form  fell  into  disuse  again  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  none  were  written  during  the 
first  Empire. 

In  general,  the  rondeau  was  neglected  in  France  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  during 
the  whole  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Marot  had,  how- 
ever, one  follower  in  the  art  of  the  rondeau,  an  English- 
man, Anthony  Hamilton  (1646-1720),  who  wrote  ad- 
mirable French  rondeaus. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  de  Musset 
made  excellent  use  of  the  form.  There  is  something 
provocative  about  the  very  name  of  Manon  in  French 
literature. 

Fut-il  jamais  douceur  de  coeur  pareille 

A  voir  Manon  dans  me  bras  sommeiller? 

Son  front  coquet  parfume  I'oreiller; 

Dans  son  beau  sein  j'entends  son  coeur  qui  veille. 

Un  songe  passe,  et  s'en  vient  I'egayer. 

Ainsi  s'endort  une  fleur  d'englantier, 
Dans  son  calice  enfermant  une  abeille. 
Moi,  je  la  berce;  un  plus  charmant  metier 
Fut-il   jamais? 

Mais  le  jour  vient,  et  I'Aurore  vermeille 
Effeuille  au  vent  son  bouquet  printanier 
La  peigne  en  main  et  la  perle  a  I'oreille, 
A  son  miroir  Manon  court  m'oublier. 
Helas!  I'amour  sans  lendemain  ne  veille 
Fut-il  jamais? 


62  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

IX 

THE    RONDEAU    REDOUBLE 

The  rondeau  redouble,  which  is  only  very  remotely 
related  to  the  rondeau  proper,  was  devised  by  Jean_de_la 
Fontaine  (1624-1695).  It  is  a  poem  of  twenty-four 
lines~wEicli  is  divided  into  six  stanzas.  Each  line  of 
the  first  stanza  appears  in  turn  as  the  last  line  of  one  of 
the  four  following  stanzas.  The  first  words  of  the 
first  line  are  repeated  after  the  conclusion  of  the  sixth 
stanza  as  an  unrhymed  refrain,  as  may  be  seen  in  this 
original  example  of  the  form: 

Qu'un  vain  scrupule  a  ma  flanime  s'oppose, 
Je  ne  le  puis  souffrir  aucunement, 
Bien  que  chacun  en  murmure  at  nous  glose: 
Et  c'est  assez  pour  perdre  votre  amant. 

Si  j'avois  bruit  de  mauvais  garnement, 
Vous  me  pourriez  bannir  a  juste  cause; 
Ne  I'ayant  point,  c'est  sans  nul  fondement 
Qu'un  vain  scrupule  a  ma  flamme  s'oppose. 

Que  vous  m'aimiez  c'est  pour  moi  lettre  close; 
Voire  on  diroit  que  quelque  changement 
A  m'alleguer  ces  raisons  vous  dispose: 
Je  ne  le  puis  souffrir  aucunement. 

Bien  moins  pourrois  vous  cacher  mon  tourment, 
N'ayant  pas  mis  au  contract  cette  clause; 
Toujours  ferai  I'amour  ouvertement, 
Bien  que  chacun  en  murmure  et  nous  glose. 

Ainsi  s'aimer  est  plus  doux  qu'eau  de  rose; 
Souffrez-le  done,  Phyllis;  car  autrement. 
Loin  de  vos  yeux  je  vais  faire  une  pose; 
Et  c'est  assez  pour  perdre  votre  amant. 

Pourriez-vous  voir  ce  triste  eloignement? 
De  vos  faveurs  doublez  plutot  la  dose. 
Amour  ne  veut  tant  de  raisonnement : 
Ce  point  d'honneur,  ma  foi,  n'est  autre  chose 
Qu'un  vain  scrupule. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  63 

The  rondeau   redouble  has  never  enjoyed  the  slightest 
popularity  in  France. 

X 

THE  TRIOLET 

The  early  eight-line  form  of  the  rondeau  was  later 
given  the  name  of  triolet,  possibly  because,  in  the  first 
place,  it  was  originally  a  three-part  song.  It  was  only 
in  the  fifteenth  century,  after  the  creation  of  the  two 
variant  types  that  the  eight-line  poem  became  known  as 
the  triolet.  In  the  fifteenth  century,  besides  those 
authors  that  have  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the 
rondeau,  the  poets  who  wrote  triolets  were  Jean  Regnier, 
Octavien  de  Saint-Gelais,  and  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
Michel  d'Amboise  and  Francois  Sagon.  More  and 
more,  the  triolet  came  to  be  devoted  to  satire  and  bur- 
lesque. After  going  out  with  the  coming  of  the  Pleiade, 
the  triolet  was  revived  again  at  the  time  of  the  wars 
of  the  Fronde.  At  this  time  there  was  no  connection 
recognized  between  the  triolet  and  the  rondeau.  It 
was  not  until  1720  that  a  French  critic  bracketed  the 
triolet  and  the  rondeau,  but  he  was  ignorant  of  the  real 
connection  between  them.  The  feud  between  the 
Fronde  and  Cardinal  Mazarin  produced  numerous  trio- 
lets. To  a  popular  tune  of  the  day  the  literary  partisans 
of  both  sides  composed  triolets  in  which  they  attacked 
on  another.  Mazarin  himself,  the  Prince  of  Conde, 
and  other  lesser  political  lights  gave  and  took  in  the 
■wordy  battle.  The  sufferings  of  the  poor  during  the 
dlockade  found  expression  in  this  triolet  by  Marc 
Antoine  de  Gerard,  Sieur  de  Samt-Amant  (1594-1661), 
in  his  Nobles  Tnolets,  in  which  curses  are  heaped  on  the 
high  price  of  bread  and  on  the  military  operations  which 
caused  the  scarcity. 


64  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Un  pain  qui  coute  deux  ecus! 
Ah !  ma  f oi !  c'est  un  mauvais  ordre 
La  peste  creve  le  Blocus! 
Un  pain  qui  coute  deux  ecus! 
Recompensons-nous  sur  Bacchus 
Puis  qu'a  Ceres  on  n'ose  mordre 
Un  pain  qui  coute  deux  ecus! 
Ah!  ma  foi!  c'est  un  mauvais  ordre. 

One  triolet,  a  satire  launched  by  the  Parliamentarians 
against  Mazarin,  had  for  its  refrain 

Maudit,   maraud,  malicieux, 
Sot,  superb,  simoniaque. 

Thus  the  triolet  played  fully  as  important  a  part  in 
political  as  in  literary  history.  One  of  the  loveliest  of 
the  French  triolets  was  written  about  1660  by  Ranchin, 
a  councillor  of  the  Chambre  de  I'Edit,     In  French  it  is 

Le   premier   jour   du   mois   de   mai 
Fut  le  plus  heureux  de  ma  vie: 
Le  beau  dessein  que  je  formai, 
Le  premier  jour  du  mois  de  mai! 
Je  vous  vis  et  je  vous  aimai. 
Si  ce  dessein  vous  plut,  Sylvie, 
Le  premier  jour  de  mois  de  mat 
Fut  le  plus  heureux  de  ma  vie. 

It  is  hard  to  put  into  English  the  delicacy  of  the  original, 
but  quite  simply  it  is  said  in  the  triolet  that  the  first 
of  May  was  the  very  best  day  of  the  young  man's  life, 
because  on  that  day  he  had  seen  and  loved  Sylvia,  whom 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  marry.  And  so,  for  that 
reason,  the  first  day  of  the  month  of  May  was  indeed 
the  best  of  his  life.  The  vogue  declined  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  in  France  and  the  form  practically  died 
out,  though  Alexis  Piron  (1689-1783)  was  the  author 
of  a  few  triolets. 

Patrick  Carey,  one  of  the  minor  poets  of  the  Caroline 


/ 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  65 

period  in  England,  like  George  MacDonald  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  used  the  triolet  for  religious  purposes. 
Carey  is  supposed  to  have  learned  the  use  of  the  form 
in  France.  The  manuscript  in  which  his  poems  appear 
is  dated  1651.  It  is  of  passing  interest  that  he  is  men- 
tioned in  Scott's  Woodstock  and  that  Scott  in  1819  spon- 
sored one  of  the  first  editions  of  his  works,  in  which 
these  three  triolets  appear: 


Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell! 
Farewell  all  earthly  joys  and  cares! 
On  nobler  thoughts  my  soul  shall  dwell. 
Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell ! 
At  quiet,  in  my  peaceful  cell, 
I'll  think  on  God,  free  from  your  snares; 
Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell! 
Farewell  all  earthly  joys  and  cares. 

II 

I'll  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil. 
Riches  and  power  I'll  set  at  naught  j 
Let  others  strive  for  them  that  will, 
I'll  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil: 
Lest  sinful  pleasures  my  soul  kill, 
(By  folly's  vain  delights  first  caught,) 
I'll  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil, 
Riches  and  power  I'll  set  at  naught. 

Ill 

Yes  (my  dear  Lord)   I've  found  it  so; 
No  joys  but  thine  are  purely  sweet; 
Other  delights  come  mixt  with  woe, 
Yes  (my  dear  Lord)    I've  found  it  so. 
Pleasure  at  courts  is  but  in  show. 
With  true  content  in  cells  we  meet; 
Yes  (my  dear  Lord)    I've  found  it  so, 
No  joys  but  thine  are  purely  sweet. 


66  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

XI 

THE  RONDEAU  IN  ENGLAND 

The  rondeau  came  to  England  at  the  same  time  that 
the  ballade  did.     In  Chaucer's  works  the  form  occurs 
|!     four  times.     He  himself  called  them  roundels.     In  form 
\    they  resemble  one  type  of  the  early  French  rondel.     His 
triple  roundel  is  called  Merciles  Beaute.     They  are  all 
thirteen-line  poems,  the  first  stanza  consisting  of  three 
j    lines,  the  first  two  of  which  are  later  repeated  as  the 
I    second  two  lines  of  the  second  stanza,  the  whole  of  the 
first  stanza  being  repeated  as  refrain  at  the  end  of  the 
third  stanza.     They  are  not  only  thoroughly  conven- 
tional in  the  matter,  but  the  images  and  phraseology  fol- 
low closely  the  practices  of  Chaucer's  contemporaries  in 
France.     Merciles  Beaute  is  here  given: 

I.    Captivity 

Your  yen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly,VV 

I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene,  ^ 

So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte  kene.C 

And  but  your  word  wol  helen  hastily  o^ 
My  hertes  wounde,  whyl  that  hit  is  grene^*- 

Your  yen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly,  V^ 

I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene.  ^ 

Upon  my  trouthe  I  sey  yow  feithfully,^^.. 
That  you  ben  of  my  lyf  and  deeth  the  queue  ;Vy 
For  with  my  deeth  the  trouthe  shal  be  sene.   ^ 
Your  yen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly,     ^ 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene,    ^ 
So  woundeth   hit  through-out  my  herte  kene.^ 

II.    Rejection 

So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne; 
For  Daunger  halt  your  mercy  in  his  cheyne. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  67 

Giltles  my  deeth  thus  han  ye  me  purchaced; 

I  sey  yow  sooth,  me  nedeth  not  to  feyne; 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne. 

Alias!   that  nature  hath  in  yow  compassed 
So  great  beaute,  that  no  man  may  atteyne 
To  mercy,  though  he  sterve  for  the  peyne. 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne; 
For  Daunger  halt  your  mercy  in  his  cheyne. 

III.    Escape 

Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 

I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene; 

Sin  I  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 

He  may  answere,  and  seye  this  or  that; 

I  do  no  fors,  I  speke  right  as  I  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene. 

Love  hath  my  name  y-strike  out  of  his  sclat, 

And  he  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene 

For  ever-mo;  ther  is  non  other  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene; 
Sin  I  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 

It  used  to  be  thought  that  Chaucer  had  depended  solely 
on  a  rondel  by  Guillaume  d'Amiens,  the  first  three  lines 
of  which  were 

Jamais  ne  serai  saous 
D'esguarder  les  vairs  ieus  dous 
Qui  m'ont  ocis. 

But  John  Livingston  Lowes  has  recently  shown  a  much 
closer  resemblance  between  these  three  roundels  of 
Chaucer  and  three  poems  by  Eustache  Deschamps.  The 
following  parallel  passages  seem  convincing: 


68  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Your    yen    (wo    tvol    dee  me      Comment    pourra    mon    corps 

sodenly;  diirer 

1   may  the  beaute  of  hem  not      Ne    les    douls    regars    endmer 

sustetie,  De  voz  biaux  yeiix? 

So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  Fay  que  Pitie  vueille  garder 

herte  chaced  Et  bon  espoir  reconforter 

P'ltee  that  me  ne  avaiUth  not  Mon  flaint  fiteiix; 

to  pleyne;  Car  se  Dangier  le  desfiteux 

For  Dannger  Iialt  your  mercy  Me  nuht,  je  doy  bien  deman- 
in  his  cheyne.  der 

Comment  pourra,  etc. 

Chaucer's  fourth  roundel  is  found  at  the  end  of  the 
Parlement  of  Foules.  Just  before  the  birds  raise  their 
voices  in  the  little  song,  occurs  the  familiar  line  "The 
note,  I  trowe,  maked  was  in  Fraunce."  The  roundel 
is  preceded  by  the  French  phrase,  "Qui  bien  aime  a  tard 
oublie"  (when  once  one  has  loved  it  takes  a  long  time 
to  forget).  This  phrase  is  found  recurring  frequently 
in  the  poetry  of  the  fourteenth  century.  Before 
Deschamps  it  was  used  by  Moniot  de  Paris  in  a  hymn 
to  the  Virgin.  It  occurs  also  in  the  works  of  Machault. 
In  its  place  at  the  head  of  the  roundel  in  the  Parlement 
of  FouleSy  it  indicates  the  tune  to  which  the  poem  is  to 
be  sung.  The  rhyme  scheme  and  structure  of  the  poem 
are  similar  to  those  of  the  individual  roundels  in  Mer- 
ciles  Beaute.  In  this  song  which  the  "foules"  chant 
we  find  the  echo  of  rustic  dances  celebrating  the  return 
of  radiant  spring  to  the  countryside  after  a  long,  dark 
winter. 

Now  welcom  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softeV 
That  hast  this  wintres  weders  over-shake,  ^ 
And  driven  awey  the  longe  nightes  blake!^ 

Seynt  Valentyn,  that  art  ful  hy  on-lofte; — *>' 
Thus  singen  smale  foules  for  thy  sake —      -^ 
Now  welcom  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe,^^ 
That  hast  this  wintres  weders  over-shake.  <b 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  69 

Wei  han  they  cause  for  to  gladen  ofte,o^ 
Sith  ech  of  hem  recovered  hath  his  make;  ^A^ 
Ful  blisful  may  they  singen  whan  they  wake:-t>- 
Now  welcom  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe,  t\ 
Thou  hast  this  wintres  weders  over-shake,  S 
And  driven  away  the  longe  nightes  blake.  C 

Thomas  Hoccleve  and  John  Lydgate  took  advantage 
also  of  the  newly  introduced  French  fixed  verse  form. 
Hoccleve's  rowndel  is  a  clumsier  welcome  to  summer 
than  Chaucer's.  The  scribe  who  set  down  the  lines 
did  not  trouble  to  repeat  the  refrain  in  full,  though  the 
poem  is  evidently  like  Chaucer's  roundels  in  structure. 

Somer   that    rypest   mannes   sustenance 
With  holsum  hete  of  the  sonnes  warmnesse, 
Al  kynde  of  man  thee  holden  is  to  blesse 

Ay  thankid  be  thy  freendly  gouernance. 
And  thy   fressh   look  of   mirthe   &   of   gladnesse! 
Somer  &  c 

To  heuy  folk  of  thee  the  remembraunce 
Is  salue  &  oynement  to  hir  seeknesse. 
For  why  we  thus  shal  synge  in  Christemesse, 
Somer  &  c 

Lydgate  celebrated  the  entry  of  Henry  VI  into  London 
after  his  coronation  in  France  by  the  composition  of  a 
rondel  which  has  come  down  to  us  in  fragmentary  form, 
but  which  has  been  restored  by  a  German  scholar  to 
read: 

Sovereigne  lord,   welcome  to  youre   citee! 
Welcome  oure  joye,  and  oure  hertes  plesaunce! 
Welcome  oure  gladness,  welcome  oure  suffisaunce! 
Welcome!   welcome!    righte  welcome  mot  ye  be! 

Singyng  to  fforn  thi  rialle  majeste, 
We  say  of  hert,  withowte   variaunce, 
Sovereigne  lord,  welcome  to  youre  citee! 
Welcome  oure  joye,  and  oure  hertes  plesaunce! 


70  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Meire,  citezins,  and  alle  the  comynalte, 

Att  youre  home  comyng  now  owghte  of  Fraunce, 

Be  grace  relevyd  of  ther  old  grevaunce, 

Sing  this  day,  withe  grete  solempnite, 

Sovereigne    lord,    welcome    to    youre    citee! 

Welcome  oure  joye,  and  oure  hertes  plesaunce! 

If  Lydgate  wrote  this  rondel  as  a  fourteen-line  poem 
with  curtailed  refrain,  as  it  has  been  reconstructed,  he 
occupies  in  the  history  of  the  English  rondeau  a  position 
similar  to  that  of  Christine  de  Pisan  in  France. 

After  the  fifteenth-century  poets,  there  were  no  ron- 
deaus written  until  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the  form 
was  employed  several  times  by  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  one 
of  the  courtly  makers  of  King  Henry  VIH's  court,  who 
is  more  famous  for  having  introduced  the  Italian  sonnet 
into  English  poetry.  He  was  a  student  of  Chaucer  and 
he  knew  the  lyric  forms  and  commonplaces  of  Proven- 
cal, French,  and  Italian  poetry  alike.  One  of  Wyatt's 
rondeaus  is  an  offensive  attack  on  Anne  Boleyn  in  the 
vein  of  the  medieval  French  satires  against  women. 
The  rondeau  of  Wyatt's  most  commonly  cited  is 

What?      No,  perdy!   ye  may  be  sure; 
Thinck  not  to  make  me  to  your  lure 
With  wordes  and  chere  so  contrarieing, 
Suete   and  soure  contrewaing; 
To  much  it  were  still  to  endure. 
Trouth  is  tryed  where  craft  is  in  vrej 
But,  though  ye  have  had  my  herte's  cure, 
Trow  ye  I  dote  withoute  ending? 
What?      No,   perdy! 

Though  that  with  pain  I  do  procure 
For  to  forgett  that  ons  was  pure, 
Within  my  hert  shall  still  that  thing 
Vnstable,   vnsure,   and   wavering. 
Be  in   my   mynde   withoute   recure? 
What?      No,  perdye! 

This  rondeau  exhibits  the  form  which  had  become  the 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  71 

standard  in  France,  the  thirteen-line  poem  rhyming 
a  a  b  b  a  a  a  b/a  abba,  with  an  unrhymed  refrain 
consisting  of  the  first  half  of  the  first  line  repeated  after 
the  eighth  line  and  after  the  thirteenth.  Wyatt's  ron- 
deaus are  followed  over  a  century  later  by  Charles  Cot- 
ton's attack  on  the  ladies. 

Thou  fool !  if  madness  be  so  rife, 
That,  spite  of  wit,  thou'lt  have  a  wife, 
I'll  tell  thee  what  thou  must  expect — 
After  the  honeymoon  neglect. 
All  the  sad  days  of  thy  whole  life; 

To  that  a  world  of  woe  and  strife. 
Which  is  of  marriage  the  effect — 
And  thou  thy  woe's  own  architect. 

Thou  fool! 

Thou'lt  nothing  find  but  disrespect, 
111  words  i'  th'  scolding  dialect, 
For  she'll  all  tabor  be,  or  fife; 
Then  prythee   go   and   whet   thy  knife. 
And  from  this  fate  thyself  protect. 

Thou  fool! 

Charles  Cotton  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Izaak  Walton's. 
The  rondeau  in  France  had  been  very  generally  used  for 
personal  and  political  satire  in  the  sixteenth  and  the 
seventeenth  centuries,  and  it  is  the  satirical  rather  than 
the  amorous  rondeau  that  influenced  both  Wyatt  and 
Cotton.  In  the  eighteenth  century  the  members  of  the 
Pitt  ministry  suffered  violent  attack  in  rondeaus  that 
were  printed  in  the  political  satire  called  the  Rolliad, 
published  in  1784.  These  two  specimens  shows  in  what 
straits  the  political  versifier  may  find  himself. 

Of  Eden  lost,  in  ancient  days, 

If  we  believe  what  Moses  says, 
A  paltry  pippin  was  the  price. 
One  crab  was  bribe  enough   to  entice 

Frail  human  kind  from  virtue's  ways. 


72  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

But  now  when  PITT,  the  all-perfect,  sways, 
No  such  vain  lures  the  tempter  lays, 
Too  poor   to  be   the  purchase  twice, 

Of  Eden  lost. 

The  Dev'l  grown  wiser,  to  the  gaze 
Six  thousand   pounds   a  year  displays. 

And  finds  success  from  the  device; 

Finds  this  fair  fruit  too  well  suffice 
To  pay  the  peace  and  honest  praise. 

Of  Eden  lost. 

"A  mere  affair  of  trade  to  embrace, 

"Wines,  brandies,  gloves,  fans,  cambricks,  lace; 

"For  this  on  me  my  Sovereign  laid 

"His  high  commands  and  I  obeyed; 
"Nor  think,  my  lord,  this  conduct  base. 

"Party  were  guilt  in  such  a  case, 
•  "When  thus  my  country,  for  a  space, 

"Calls  my  poor  skill  to  Dorset's  aid 
"A  mere  affair  of  trade!" 

Thus  Eden  with  unblushing  face. 

To  North  would  palliate  his  disgrace; 

When  North,  with  smiles,  this  answer  made: 
"You  might  have  spared  what  you  have  said; 
"I  thought  the  business  of  your  place 
"A  mere  affair  of  trade!" 

These  rondeaus  attacking  North,  Eden,  Pitt  and  Dorset 
are  attributed  to  Dr.  Laurence,  a  friend  of  Burke's. 

XII 

THE    VILLANELLE 

The  word  villanelle,  or  villenesque,  was  used  toward 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  to  describe  literary  imita- 
tions of  rustic  songs.  Such  villanelles  were  alike  in 
exhibiting  a  refrain  which  testified  to  their  ultimate  pop- 
ular origin.     The  villanelle  was,  in  a  sense,  invented  by 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND   USE  73 

Jean  Passerat  (1534-1602).  It  is  a  poem  of  six  stanzas 
of  not  more  than  two  rhymes,  the  first  five  of  which  are 
composed  of  three  lines,  the  last  of  four,  the  first  line 
and  the  third  line  of  the  first  stanza  alternating  as  re- 
frains. The  tercets  rhyme  a  b  a,  the  quatrain  usually 
a  b  a  a.  Passerat's  villanelle  about  the  turtle-dove  and 
Wyndham's  translation  show  all  of  these  characteristics. 

J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle; 
Est-ce  point  celle  que  j'oy? 
Je  veux  aller  apres  elle. 

Tu  regrettes  ta  femelle, 
Helas!  aussi  fais-je  moi, 
J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle. 

Si  ton  amour  est  fidelle, 
Aussi  est  ferme  ma  foy; 
Je  veux  aller  apres  elle. 

Ta  plainte  se  renouvelle, 
Toujours  plaindre  je  me  doy; 
J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle. 

En  ne  voyant  plus  la  belle, 
Plus  rien  de  beau  je  ne  voy; 
Je  veux  aller  apres  elle. 

Mort,  que  tant  de  fois  j'appelle, 
Prends  ce  qui  se  donne  a  toy! 
J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle; 
Je  veux  aller  apres  elle. 

I  have  lost  my  turtle-dove; 
Is  not  that  her  call  to  me? 
To  be  with  her  were  enough. 

You  mourn  for  your  mate  in  love, 
I  chant  in  the  same  sad  key, 
I  have  lost  my  turtle-dove. 

If  your  faith  is  not  to  move, 
Fast  is  my  fidelity; 
To  be  with  her  were  enough. 


74  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Grief  renews  your  song  thereof, 
Endless  mine  of  misery; 
1  have   lost  my  turtle-dove. 

Seeing  no  more  in  the   grove 
Hers,  no  beauty  can  I  see; 
To  be  with  her  were  enough. 

Death,  besought  all  life  above. 
Take  one  self-assigned  to  thee! 
I  have  lost  my  turtle-dove; 
To  be  with  her  were  enough. 

Passerat  had  written  other  villanelles,  so-called,  that  did 
not  conform  to  this  model  at  all.  The  great  Hellenist 
was  undoubtedly  unaware  of  the  innovation  that  he  had 
introduced,  but  the  form  caught  the  attention  of  his 
contemporaries  and  became  fixed  in  his  lifetime.  Pierre 
Richelet  and  other  writers  on  the  theory  of  poetry  desig- 
nated as  villanelles  only  those  poems  that  conformed  to 
Passerat's  classic  example.  L.  E.  Kastner,  the  eminent 
authority  on  French  versification,  mentions  the  fact  that 
"Philoxene  Boyer  (1827-67)  has  left  one  well-known 
example  of  this  form.  La  Marquise  Aurore  (which  dif- 
fers slightly  from  Passerat's  model  in  that  the  third  line 
of  the  first  tercet  is  repeated  before  the  first  line.   .  .   .)" 

XIII 

THE    SESTINA 

The  sestina  is  also  in  a  sense  an  invention,  the  first 
one  being  the  work  of  Arnaut  Daniel  (died  11 99),  who 
was  ranked  by  Dante  highest  amongst  Provengal  poets. 
Dante  himself  wrote  sestinas  in  Italian,  his  most  famous 
one  beginning  with  the  words  "Al  poco  giorno  ed  al 
gran  cerchio  d'ombra."  In  the  De  Vulgari  Eloqu'io  he 
says  that  he  copied  the  structure  of  his  sestinas  from 
Arnaut  Daniel.     The  sestina  in  its  pure  medieval  form 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  75 

is  independent  of  rhyme.  It  is  composed  of  six  stanzas 
of  six  lines.  The  final  words  of  the  first  stanza  appear 
in  inverted  order  in  all  the  others.  If  we  let  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet  represent  the  six  final  words  of  the  first 
stanza,  we  have  the  following  graphic  illustration  of 
the  order  in  which  these  words  reappear  in  the  five  fol- 
lowing stanzas: 

a  b  c  d  e  f 
f  a  e  b  d  c 
c  f  d  a  b  e 
e  c  b  f  a  d 
d  e  a  c  f  b 
b  d  f  e  c  a 

These  six  stanzas  are  followed  by  a  tornada,  or  envoy, 
of  three  lines,  in  which  all  the  final  words  are  repeated 
in  this  order:  b  e,  d  c,  f  a.  The  stanza  of  the  sestina 
was  a  climax  in  the  development  of  the  Provencal  lyric 
called  the  chanso  redonda,  in  which  the  last  rhyme  of 
one  stanza  corresponded  with  the  first  rhyme  of  the 
following  stanza,  but  with  the  additional  complication 
that  every  rhyme  started  a  stanza  in  turn.  The  poets 
of  the  Pleiade,  notably  Pontus  de  Tyard  (1521-1605), 
revived  and  adapted  the  sestina.  Barnabe  Barnes 
(1569?-1609),  who  had  lived  in  France  both  in  his 
boyhood  and  in  his  early  manhood  and  had  come  into 
contact  with  the  writings  of  the  Pleiade  in  various  ways, 
wrote  five  sestinas  which  are  contained  in  his  Parthenofhil 
and  Parthenofe.  The  first  one  that  is  here  given  pre- 
sents no  singularities  of  form. 

When  I  waked  out  of  dreaming, 
Looking  all   about  the  garden, 
Sweet  PARTHENOPE   was  walking: 
O   what   fortune  brought  her  hither! 
She  much  fairer  than  that  Nymph, 
Which  was  beat  with  rose  and  lilies. 


76  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Her  cheeks  exceed  the  rose  and  lilies. 
I    was   fortunate   in   dreaming 
Of  so  beautiful  a  Nymph. 
To  this  happy  blessed  garden, 
Come,  you  Nymphs!  come,  Fairies!  hither. 
Wonder  Nature's  Wonder  walking! 

So  She  seemed,  in  her  walking, 
As  she  would  make  rose  and  lilies 
Ever  flourish.      O,  but  hither 
Hark!    (for  I  beheld  it  dreaming) 
Lilies  blushed  within  the  garden, 
Stained  with  beauties  of  that  Nymph. 

The  Rose  for  anger  at  that  Nymph 
Was  pale!    and,   as  She  went  on  walking, 
When   She   gathered  in  the   garden,  t 

Tears  came  from  the  Rose  and  Lilies! 
As  they  sighed,  their  breath,   in  dreaming 
I  could  well  perceive  hither. 

When  PARTHENOPE  came  hither, 
At  the  presence  of  that  Nymph, 
(That  hill  was  heaven !  where  I  lay  dreaming) 
But  when  I  had  espied  her  walking. 
And  in  her  hand  her  Rose  and  Lilies 
As  sacrifice  given  by  that  garden; 

(To  Love,  stood  sacred  that  fair  garden!) 
I  dared  the  Nymphs  to  hasten  hither. 
Make  homage  to  the  Rose  and  Lilies! 
Which  are  sacred  to  my  Nymph. 
Wonder,   when  you  see   her  walking! 
(Might  I  see  her,  but  in  dreaming!) 

Even  the   fancy  of  that  Nymph 
Would  make  me,  night  and  day,  come  hither, 
To  sleep  in  this  thrice  happy  garden. 

Another  one  of  his  sestinas  invokes  the  assistance  of 
Echo,  with  what  results  the  first  stanza  of  the  poem 
shows. 

Echo!   What  shall   I  do  to  my  Nymph  when   I  go  to 
behold  her? 

ECHO,     Hold  her! 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  77 

So  dare  I  not!   lest  She  should  think  that  I  make  her 
a  prey  then ! 

ECHO,     Pray  then! 
Yea,   but    at    me.    She    will    take    scorn,    proceeded    of 
honour! 

ECHO,     On  her! 
Me  bear  will  She  (with  her,  to  deal  so  saucily)  never! 

ECHO,     Ever! 
Yea,  but  I  greatly  fear  She  will  have  pure  thoughts  to 
refuse  such. 

ECHO,     Few  such! 
Then   will   I   venture   again   more   bold,   if   you   warn 
me  to  do  so! 

ECHO,     Do  so! 

The  Comte  de  Gramont  between  1830  and  1848 
wrote  a  number  of  sestinas  and  is  credited  with  having 
devised  the  form  constructed  on  two  rhymes.  Tyard 
had,  however,  introduced  rhyme  into  his  sestinas,  the 
rhyme  order  in  the  first  stanza  running  a  b  c  b  c  a. 
Gramont  reduced  the  rhymes  to  two,  arranged  in  the 
first  stanza  as  a  b  a  a  b  b.  In  Gramont's  sestinas  the 
tornada  is  not  constructed  according  to  Provencal  prece- 
dents. There  were  sporadic  experiments  with  the 
sestina  in  nineteenth-century  France. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  sestina  was  written  in 
Germany  in  the  seventeenth  century  by  Opitz  and  Weck- 
herlin.  Double  sestinas  and  sestinas  in  dialogue  form 
have  also  been  attempted  in  Germany. 

XIV 

THE   REVIVAL   OF   THE    FORMS   IN    THE    NINE- 
TEENTH   CENTURY 

The  forms  neglected  in  France  for  one  hundred  andi 
fifty  years  or  more  were  revived  there  in  the  late  fifties 
of  the  last  century.  Shortly  afterward,  they  established 
themselves  both  in  England  and  in  America.     Their  re- 


78  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

appearance  in  English  literature  after  the  lapse  of  four 
centuries  was  due  to  several  causes,  the  chief  of  which, 
no  doubt,  was  the  close  personal  relations  existing  between 
the  men  of  letters  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel,  the 
monotony  produced  by  the  lesser  imitators  of  Tenny- 
sonian  blank  verse  and  other  characteristic  measures  of 
the  great  Victorians,  and  the  feeling,  more  or  less  in  the 
air,  that  the  time  had  come  to  enrich  English  literature 
with  fixed  verse  forms,  some  of  which  might  perhaps 
take  their  place  with  the  sonnet.  The  forms  found  a 
much  more  general  recognition  at  their  second  coming  to 
England  than  they  had  in  the  age  of  Chaucer.  In  par- 
ticular, the  group  which  included  Austin  Dobson, 
Andrew  Lang,  Edmund  Gosse,  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne, and  W.  E.  Henley,  were  so  successful  in  spread- 
ing the  contagion  of  their  enthusiasm  for  the  forms  and 
in  adapting  the  forms  to  the  requirements  of  English 
poetry,  that  many  of  their  contemporaries  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic  were  moved  to  follow  their  example. 
^  Thus  English  letters  came  again  into  this  charming 
legacy  from  medieval  France. 

The  revival  of  the  ballade,  the  rondeau,  the  triolet, 
and  the  villanelle  is  a  phase  of  the  romanticism  which 
expressed  itself  so  variously  in  nineteenth-century  French 
literature.  The  poetic  sons  of  Victor.  Hugo,  far  from 
slavishly  following  his  type  of  revolt,  appear  to  have 
prided  themselves  generally  on  the  "dissidence  of  their 
dissent."  To  Sainte-Beuve  goes  the  honor  of  having 
reintroduced  the  ballade  into  France.  Two  stanzas  of 
a  Ballade  du  Vieux  Temfs  are  included  in  his  collected 
poems.  In  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
as  has  been  noted,  Alfred  de  Musset  wrote  airy  and 
delicate  rondeaus,  and  shortly  thereafter  the  Comte 
de  Gramont  manipulated  in  various  ways  the  sestina 
that  had  been  acclimated  in  northern  France  at  the  time 
of  the  Pleiade. 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  79 

It  was  in  particular  Theodore  de  Banville  (1820- 
1891)  who,  in  his  conscious  desire  to  introduce  unusual 
and  intricate  rhyme  schemes  into  French  poetry  once 
more,  turned  back  to  the  native  fixed  forms.  In  his 
Odes  Funambulcsques  there  are  examples  of  the  ballade, 
the  chant  royal,  the  villanelle,  the  rondeau,  and  the 
triolet.  He  was  an  aident  student  of  Francois  Villon. 
At  the  conclusion  of  Banville's  Trente-six  Ballades  Joy- 
euses  he  makes  a  plea  that,  if  Villon  is  to  be  classed 
with  thievies,  he  must  rank  at  least,  because  of  the  nature 
of  his  theft,  with  Prometheus,  who  filched  divine  fire. 
He  refers  his  technique  to  Villon  in  the  Dizain,  prefixed 
to  the  same  collection: 

Comme  Villon  qui  polit  sa  Ballade 

Au  temps  jadis,  pour  charmer  ton  souci 

J'ai  fagonne  la  mienne,  et  la  voici. 

With  Villon  for  a  master,  Banville's  technique  became 
remarkably  effective.  Dowden  said  of  him  some  years 
ago  that  he  "taught  modern  poets  to  unite  lyrical  impulse 
with  the  most  delicate  technical  skill."  Andrew  Lang 
characterized  him  as  "careful  in  form  rather  than  abun- 
dant in  manner."  Lang  wrote  also,  "There  is  scarcely 
a  more  delightful  little  volume  in  the  French  language 
than  this  collection  of  verses  in  the  most  difl!icult  of 
forms  which  poured  forth  with  absolute  ease  and  flu- 
ency notes  of  mirth,  banter,  joy  in  the  spring,  in  letters, 
art,  and  good  fellowship."  Stevenson,  too,  paid  homage 
to  Banville.  "When  De  Banville,"  declared  Stevenson, 
"revives  a  forgotten  form  of  verse — and  he  has  already 
had  the  honor  of  reviving  the  ballade — he  does  it  in 
the  spirit  of  the  workman  choosing  a  good  tool  wherever 
he  can  find  one,  and  not  at  all  in  that  of  the  dilettante, 
who  seeks  to  renew  bygone  forms  of  thought  and  make 
historic  forgeries.   .   .   .   De  Banville's  poems  are  full  of 


80  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

color;  they  smack  racily  of  modern  life."  Banville's 
ballades  justify  these  generous  appreciations,  whatever 
charge  of  poetic  trickery  may  be  lodged  against  his  other 
verse.  His  early  Ballade  des  Celebrites  du  Temps  Jadis, 
a  parody  of  Villon's  masterpiece,  is  a  satire  concerned 
with  the  literati  of  the  day.  Banville  says  in  his  notes, 
"J'ai  conserve  tel  qu'il  est  le  celebre  refrain  de  Villon: 
Mais  oil  sont  les  neiges  d'antan!  et  j'ai  tache  de  mettre 
mon  art  a  amener  ce  refrain  par  un  jeu  de  rimes  tout 
different  de  celui  que  le  maitre  avait  employe."  Ban- 
ville's play  Gr'tngo'tre  introduces  two  ballades.  Villon 
is  plainly  the  prototype  of  the  hero,  Pierre  Gringoire. 
As  the  fifteenth-century  users  of  the  forms  had  done, 
Banville  published  a  treatise  on  poetics.  In  his  Petit 
Traite  de  Poesie  Frangaise^  he  gives  a  whole  chapter 
to  "les  poemes  traditionnels  a  forme  fixe.'* 

Albert    Glatignj     (1839-1873),    Laurent    Tailhade 
(1857—),   and  Emile   Bergerat    (1845—)    have   fol- 
lowed the  precedent  set  by  Banville.      Both  in  France 
and  in  England  Banville  was  beyond  doubt  the  one  man 
responsible  for  the  renewed  vogue  of  old  re f ram  poetry. 
Glatigny,  the  vagabond  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
contributed  to  Le  Parnasse  Contemforain,  a  Ballade  des 
Enfants  Sans  Souci,  translated  in  the  anthology,  which 
is  conceived  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  Villon  wrote  of 
his  life  in  Le  Testament.     A  more  urbane  follower  of 
Banville,  Emile  Bergerat,  acknowledges  his  master  in 
his  Ballade  a  Banville.      Bergerat  is  one  of  the  most 
prolific    of    modern    ballade    writers.      His    themes    are 
chiefly  those  of  familiar  verse.      Possibly  the  most  inter- 
esting   from   the   standpoint   of   literary   history   is   the 
Ballade  Cambogienney  printed  anonymously  by  Comoe- 
dia,  which   challenged  its  readers  to  guess  the   author. 
On   the   following   day,   Edmond   Rostand  sent  to  the 
same    journal    his    solution,    Ballade    sur    une    Ballade 
AnonymCy  the  second  stanza  of  which  proclaims: 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  81 

Aussi  vrai  que  d'Hermes  naquit 
Sa  lyre,  et  de  Pan  la  syringe, 
Que  le  Hongrois  boit  du  raki, 
Que  le  Chinois  tresse  la  ginge, 
Qu'il  etait  en  ecus  de  singe 
Le  tresor  qu'une  Humbert  gcra, 
Et  que  Mergy  tua  Comminge, 
La  ballade  est  de  Bergerat. 

Another  member  of  this  second  generation  of  Roman- 
ticists followed  Banville  in  writing  ballades.  The  author 
of  that  pathological  collection  Les  NevroseSy  Maurice 
Rollinat  (1846-1903),  included  the  forms  among  "his 
wild  collection  of  poems  on  disease  and  corruption." 
The  Ballade  du  Cadavre,  with  its  refrain,  "La  pourriture 
lente  et  I'ennui  du  squelette,"  is  strikingly  unpleasant. 
Rostand's  (1868-1918)  three  ballades,  included  in  Les 
Musardlses,  are  the  lightest  of  poetic  trifles.  There  is 
an  insipid  Ballade  au  Petit  Behe^  which  is  evidence  that 
Rostand's  treatment  of  the  theme  is  inferior  in  delicacy 
to  Swinburne's  in  the  roundels  called  Babyhood. 

Edmund  Gosse  wrote  an  article,  epoch-making  in  its' 
way,  called  A  Flea  for  Certain  Exotic  Forms  of  Versei 
which  was  published  in  the  Cornh'ill  Magazine  in  July^ 
1877.  This  article  was  the  manifesto  really  of  the 
English  group  to  which  Banville's  work  had  given 
an  impetus  to  experiment  \vith  the  new  forms.  In  this 
article  Gosse  told  how  lie  had  planned  to  introduce  the 
ballade  and  the  rondeau  into  French  verse,  but  had 
found  that  others  had  anticipated  him  in  the  good  work. 
The  interest  in  the  forms  in  England  was  confined 
first  to  little  coteries  and  later  became  a  wide  move- 
ment. As  early  as  1866  Swinburne  had  produced  two 
rondeaus,  not  entirely  conforming  to  the  rules,  which 
he  called  rondels.  Gosse  himself  had  in  1873  com- 
posed seven  also  slightly  irregular  rondeaus.  Robert 
Bridges,  the  present  poet  laureate,  in  the  same  year 
produced  two  rondeaus  that  conformed  in   every  way 


82  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

to  the  requirements.  The  year  1876  marks  the  return 
of  the  ballade  after  its  long  absence  from  English  lit- 
erature. In  May  Austin  Dobson  wrote  The  Prodigalsy 
and.  four  months  later  Swinburne  composed  his  Ballad 
of  Dreamland.  No  one,  however,  antedated  Mr.  Gosse's 
villanelle,  Wouldst  Thou  Not  Be  Content  to  Die,  which 
was  published  in  the  Athenjeum  in  1874,  nor  the  first 
example  in  English  of  the  chant  royal  for  which  he  was 
also  responsible.  In  1911  Edmund  Gosse,  Andrew 
Lang,  and  Austin  Dobson  wrote  me,  in  response  to  some 
inquiries  I  had  made  about  the  revival  of  the  forms,  in 
the  following  terms:  "You  should  note,"  Gosse's  letter 
ran,  "that  1876  is  the  date  of  the  reintroduction  of  the 
ballade  intoi  English  literature,  Rossetti's  translation 
from  Villon  being  accidental,  in  the  sense  that  he  was 
attracted  to  the  beauty  of  the  old  French  poem  without 
having  perceived,  or  having  attempted  to  retain,  the  char- 
acter of  the  form.  The  reason  for  the  simultaneous 
adoption  of  this  beautiful  form  by  a  number  of  poets 
is  difficult  to  trace.  But  I  think  it  was  connected  with 
the  circulation  in  London  of  certain  copies  of  Banville's 
Trente-stx  Ballades  Joyeuses.  This  was  certainly  the 
case  with  Swinburne,  Lang  and  myself,  and  I  believe 
with  Dobson  and  Henley.  But  a  desire  for  the  support 
of  a  more  rigid  and  disciplined  metre  was  in  the  air,  and 
we  all  independently  and  simultaneously  seized  upon  the 
French  forms  of  which  Banville  gave  the  precise  rules 
in  his  Petit  Tra'ite.  I  cannot  find  the  book,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  a  new  edition  of  the  Petit  Tra'ite  was  issued 
in  1876.  I  know  that  I  wrote  at  that  time  a  letter 
of  adoring  inquiry,  and  received  in  return  a  long  letter 
of  sympathy  and  advice  from  Theodore  de  Banville. 
But  do  not  suppose  that  any  of  this  interest  in  the  'forms,' 
as  we  used  to  call  them,  dates  back  earlier  than  1870 
in  England.  Rossetti  never  sympathized  with  it  at  all." 
Andrew  Lang  wrote,  "I  happened  to  try  to  translate 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  83 

a  ballade  of  Villon  in  1870  and  later  found  Austin 
Dobson  and  Gosse  sporting  with  these  toys.  Probably 
Rossetti  and  Swinburne  first  drew  my  attention  to  Villon 
&  Co."  Austin  Dobson  said  in  his  note  to  me,  "I  was 
attracted  to  the  French  forms  because  I  was  seeking  to 
give  a  novel  turn  to  the  lighter  kinds  of  verse  which 
I  had  then  been  writing.  Some  time  between  1873  and 
1877,  I  chanced  on  the  Odes  Funambulesques  of  Theo- 
dore de  Banville,  whose  essays  in  this  kind  gave  me  the 
hint  I  wanted.  I  tried  most  of  the  forms  in  the 
Proverbs  in  Porcelain  of  1877."  Andrew  Lang's  men- 
tion of  Rossetti  recalls  the  circumstance  that  there  had 
been  earlier  translations  of  ballades  made  with  no  refer- 
ence to  the  original  form.  There  had,  it  is  true,  been 
translations  of  ballades  of  Alain  Chartier,  of  Charles 
d'Orleans,  and  of  Villon,  in  Louisa  Costello's  Specimens 
of  Early  Poetry  of  France ,  published  in  1835;  but  Miss 
Costello  showed  no  consciousness  at  all  of  the  rhyme  fea- 
tures of  the  old  French  form.  Four  years  before 
(1831),  Longfellow  had  incorporated  in  his  paper  on 
the  Origin  and  Progress  of  the  French  Language  his  ver- 
sion of  Clement  Marot's  Le  Frere  Lubin.  Longfellow, 
like  Miss  Costello,  ignored  the  peculiar  rhyme  system  of 
the  original.  Rossetti's  rendering  of  Villon's  greatest 
ballade,  also  earlier  than  Dobson's  The  Prodigals,  was, 
as  Gosse  wrote,  "accidental";  Rossetti  did  not  attempt 
to  preserve  the  character  of  the  form  and  never  sym- 
pathized, to  quote  Gosse  again,  with  the  group  who  were 
experimenting  with  it.  ■     \ 

The  year  following  Gosse's  article  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine  was  published  the  first  anthology  of  the  forms. 
One  section  of  Latter  Day  Lyrics,  a  collection  of  famil- 
iar verse  edited  by  W.  Davenport  Adams,  was  devoted 
to  English  examples  of  French  forms  of  verse.  There 
were  twenty-two  poems  in  all,  two  triolets,  one  rondel, 
six  rondeaus,  two  rondeaux  redoubles,  four  villanelles, 


84-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

two  ballades,  a  ballade  a  double  refrain,  two  chants 
royal,  a  kyrielle,  and  a  virelai.  The  outstanding  feature 
of  the  book  was  A  Note  on  Some  Foreign  Forms  of 
Verse  by  Austin  Dobson.  In  this  essay  Dobson  said, 
among  other  things,  "The  request  [to  write  about 
the  forms]  is  in  a  measure  embarrassing  because  the 
pieces  of  this  kind  in  our  language  are  not  very  numer- 
ous, and  being  few  in  number  can  scarcely  be  held 
to  be  representative.  They  come,  not  'in  battalions'  but 
rather  as  'single  spies,' — with  something  on  them  of 
the  strangeness  born  of  another  air  and  sun."  It  was 
customary  at  first  for  the  early  sponsors  of  the  forms 
to  carry  on  a  kind  of  campaign  on  their  behalf.  Dob- 
son's  arguments  took  the  following  form:  "It  has  been 
urged  .  .  .  that  genuine  inspiration  and  emotion  do  not 
express  or  exhibit  themselves  in  stereotyped  shapes  and 
set  refrains;  and  it  must  be  candidly  admitted  that  it 
is  by  no  means  easy  to  combat  such  objections.  Then 
again,  there  are  opponents  of  less  weight  to  whom  (it 
may  be),  in  the  words  of  the  'Great  Author'  in  Fielding's 
\  'Amelia,' — 'Rhymes  are  difficult  things, — they  are  stub- 
born things,  Sir!' — and  to  such,  committed  (perchance) 
to  the  comfortable  but  falsely  seductive  immunities  of 
blank  verse,  the  introduction  of  outlandish  complications 
is  a  gratuitous  injury.  ...  It  may  be  conceded  that 
the  majority  of  the  forms  now  in  question  are  not  at 
present  suited  for,  nor  are  they  intended  to  rival  the  more 
approved  national  rhythms  in  the  treatment  of  grave  or 
elevated  themes.  What  is  modestly  advanced  for  some 
of  them  (by  the  present  writer  at  least)  is  that  they  may 
add  a  new  charm  of  buoyancy, — a  lyric  freshness, — to 
amatory  and  familiar  verse,  already  too  much  condemned 
to  faded  measures  and  out-worn  cadences.  Further, 
upon  the  assumption  that  merely  graceful  or  tuneful 
trifles  may  be  sometimes  written  (and  even  read),  that 
they  are  admirable  vehicles  for  the  expression  of  trifles 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  85 

or  jeux  d'esprlt.  They  have  also  a  humbler  and  obscurer 
use.  If,  to  quote  the  once-hackneyed,  but  now  too-much- 
forgotten  maxim  of  Pope — 'Those  move  easiest  that  have 
learned  to  dance,' — what  better  discipline,  among  others, 
could  possibly  be  devised  for  'those  about  to  versify'  than 
a  course  of  RondcauXy  Triolets,  and  Ballades?"  Apropos 
of  this  last  observation  of  Dobson's,  Louis  Untermeyer's 
apprenticeship  to  "the  forms"  may  be  instanced.  In  a 
letter  to  the  present  writer  he  says,  "You  see  there  was 
a  time — longer  ago  than  I  care  to  think — when  I  wrote 
only  in  the  French  forms.  I  practised  them  one  whole 
year — for  exercise,  as  one  studies  scales.  I  have — in 
the  confines  of  a  book  which  will  never  be  printed — at 
least  five  pantoums,  two  sestinas  and  even — how  I  boast! 
— a  chant  royal." 

It  has  been  supposed  that  Dobson  turned  to  the  French 
forms  of  verse  because  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  had 
remarked  in  Victorian  Poets  apropos  of  Dobson's  earlier 
poems,  that  "Such  a  poet,  to  hold  the  hearts  he  has 
won,  not  only  must  maintain  his  quality  but  strive  to  jf 
vary  his  style."  In  any  case,  Banville's  Odes  Funambu-  Ct^"^ 
lesqueSy  with  its  triolets,  rondeaus  and  ballades  did  stim- 
ulate Dobson  to  begin  his  own  experiments.  His 
Proverbs  in  Porcelain  published  in  1877  preceded  by 
two  months  only  Gosse's  Plea.  ^  -J^ 

In  1912,  Edmund  Gosse  in  his  volume  of  Portraits 
and  Sketches,  writing  of  Andrew  Lang,  analyzed  his 
bent  in  this  way,  "He  dipped  into  the  wonderful 
lucky-bag  of  France  wherever  he  saw  the  glitter  of 
romance  .  .  .  his  definite  ambition  was  to  be  the 
Ronsard  of  modern  England  introducing  a  new  poetical 
dexterity  founded  on  the  revival  of  pure  humanism." 
Lang's  attitude  toward  the  forms  is  contained  in  his 
essay  on  Theodore  de  Banville.  "It  may  be  worth 
while,"  he  writes,  "to  quote  his  [Banville's]  testimony 
as  to  the  merit  of  these  modes  of  expression.      'This 


86  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

cluster  of  forms  is  one  of  our  most  precious  treasures, 
for  each  of  them  forms  a  rhythmic  whole,  complete  and 
perfect,  while  at  the  same  time  they  all  possess  the 
fresh  and  unconscious  grace  which  marks  the  productions 
of  primitive  times.'  Now  there  is  some  truth  in  his 
criticism;  for  it  is  a  mark  of  man's  early  ingenuity,  in 
many  arts,  to  seek  complexity  (when  you  would  expect 
simplicity),  and  yet  to  lend  to  that  complexity  an  in- 
fantine naturalness.  One  can  see  this  phenomenon  in 
early  decorative  art,  and  in  early  law  and  custom,  and 
even  in  the  complicated  structure  of  primitive  languages. 
Now,  just  as  early,  and  even  savage,  races  are  our  masters 
in  the  decorative  use  of  color  and  of  carving,  so  the 
nameless  mastersingers  of  ancient  France  may  be  our 
teachers  in  decorative  poetry,  the  poetry  some  call  vers 
de  societe.  Whether  it  is  possible  to  go  beyond  this, 
and  adapt  the  old  French  forms  to  serious  modern  poetry, 
it  is  not  for  any  one  but  time  to  decide.  In  this  matter, 
as  in  greater  affairs,  securus  judicat  orbis  tcrraruml  For 
my  own  part  I  scarcely  believe  that  the  revival  would 
serve  the  nobler  ends  of  English  poetry." 

Gosse's  Lije  of  Swinburne  and  Swinburne's  letters 
and  other  writings  are  full  of  evidences  of  his  interest 
in  the  lyric  forms  from  France.  When  Swinburne  re- 
viewed Frederick  Locker-Lampson's  Lyra  Elegantiarum 
he  was  particular  to  say,  "We  look  in  vain  for  a  ballad 
or  a  roundel  of  Chaucer's  .  .  ,  and  it  would  have  been 
of  some  little  service  to  the  common  cause  of  good  poetry 
and  sound  criticism  if  the  duncery  which  regards  or  the 
impertinence  which  pretends  to  regard  that  beautiful 
form  of  verse  [the  ballade]  as  nothing  better  than  a 
harmless  exotic  affectation  of  the  present  day  or  hour 
had  been  confronted  with  the  fact  that  it  is  one  of  the 
numberless  affectations  or  adoptions  from  foreign  models 
which  our  language  owes  to  the  father  of  modern  Eng- 
lish poetry.      If  the  old  French  ballad   form   accepted 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  87 

by  Chaucer  so  long  before  it  attained  its  highest  possible 
perfection  of  tragic  or  comic  excellence,  of  humorous 
or  pathetic  expression,  under  the  incomparable  and  inimi- 
table touch  of  Villon  is  to  be  either  patronized  or  rejected 
as  an  exotic  of  hothouse  growth  and  artificial  blossom, 
so  must  be  the  couplet,  the  stanza,  the  sonnet,  the  quatrain 
and  all  other  forms  of  rhyming  verse  in  common  use 
among  English  poets  from  Chaucer  to  Wordsworth. 
But  it  is  useless  to  insist  on  such  simple  and  palpable 
truths;  for  ignorance  will  never  understand  that  knowl- 
edge is  attainable  and  impotence  will  never  admit  that 
ability  may  be  competent.  'Do  you  suppose  it  is  as  easy 
to  write  a  song  as  to  write  an  epic?'  said  Beranger  to 
Lucien  Bonaparte.  Nor  would  it  be  as  easy  for  a  most 
magnanimous  mouse  of  a  Calibanic  poeticule  to  write  a 
ballad,  a  roundel,  or  a  virelai,  after  the  noble  fashion 
of  Chaucer  as  to  gabble  at  any  length  like  a  thing  most 
brutish  in  the  blank  and  blatant  jargon  of  epic  or 
idyllic  stultiloquence."  The  circumstances  under  which 
Swinburne's  A  Ballad  of  Dreamland  shaped  itself  are  in- 
teresting. He  wrote  once  to  Mr,  Gosse  in  regard  to 
this  poem,  "The  ballad  you  like  so  much  is  about  the 
only  lyric  I  couldn't  do  straight  off  the  minute  I  wanted 
— the  verses  jibbed  like  horses  new  to  harness,  and 
wouldn't  come  up  to  the  rhymes  all  right — so  after  half- 
an-hour's  pulling  at  them  I  went  to  bed  in  a  rage  later 
by  that  half  hour  than  usual — dismissed  all  thought  of 
verses  and  woke  next  morning  all  right,  and  went  and 
wrote  the  thing  off  when  I  got  up  exactly  as  it  now 
stands."  '~^ 

Swinburne  began  his  Century  of  Roundels  m  the  | 
middle  of  January,  1883.  He  used  the  Middle  English 
designation,  roundel,  to  describe  a  variation  of  the 
rondeau  which  he  himself  devised.  Swinburne's  roun- 
del is  a  poem  of  nine  lines  on  two  rhymes,  with  the 
beginning  of  the  first  line  repeated  after  the  third  and 


88  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

after  the  ninth  line,  this  refrain  rhyming  with  the  sec- 
ond of  the  two  rhymes  introduced.  By  the  sixth  of 
February  he  had  finished  twenty,  four  more  by  the 
ninth,  and  three  more  on  the  following  day.  The  manu- 
script was  ready  by  the  end  of  March.  The  half  sheets 
of  note  paper  on  which  they  are  written  show  almost  no 
signs  of  correction.  Swinburne  took  great  pride  also  in 
the  sestinas  which  he  elaborated.  He  wrote  to  Edmund 
Gosse  in  1877  of  his  poem  The  Complaint  of  Lisa, 
"Certainly  if  you  talk  of  metrical  inventions  or  inno- 
vations there  is  one  of  the  hardiest  on  record — a  redupli- 
cated inter-rhyming  sestina  (dodicina,  as  Rossetti  pre- 
ferred to  call  it),  the  twelve  rhymes  carried  on  even  into 
the  six-line  envoy,  as  you  will  find  if  you  look  close  for 
them  in  the  fourth  and  tenth  syllables  of  each  line  of  it 
— or  simply  if  you  (having  a  poet's  ear)  read  it  out." 
He  preferred  his  sestina  /  Saw  My  Soul  at  Rest,  printed 
in  Once  A  Week,  January  6,  1872,  to  Rizzio's  in  Both- 
well,  both  of  which  are  reprinted  in  this  volume.  Speak- 
ing of  the  latter,  he  wrote  to  Edmund  Gosse,  "and  no- 
body shall  tell  me  I  didn't  invent  a  rhyming  sestina — a 
new  variety  which  delighted  Rossetti — both  in  English 
and  French." 

To  Stephane  Mallarme  he  wrote  in  1876  in  French, 
informing  his  correspondent  at  the  beginning  of  his  letter 
that  he  was  using  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  other  side 
of  which  he  had  scribbled  a  translation  of  Villon's 
famous  ballade  epitaph  which,  Swinburne  said,  he  had 
tried  to  put  into  English  verse  innumerable  times  within 
the  sixteen  years  since  his  graduation  from  college  and 
that  he  had  at  last  succeeded  in  a  version  which  seemed 
to  him  satisfactory.  In  this  same  letter  he  reports  that 
he  and  Rossetti  had  had  at  one  time  the  idea  of  translat- 
ing all  the  works  of  Villon  into  English,  since  to  their 
minds  Villon  completed  the  poetic  trinity  of  the  Middle 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  89 

Ages,  composed  of  the  representatives  of  ^hree  great 
nations — Dante  of  Italy,  Chaucer  of  England,  and  Vil- 
lon of  France. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  belonged  to  the  group  who 
were  establishing  these  French  forms  in  English.  In 
1876  his  essay  on  Charles  of  Orleans  appeared  in  the 
Cornhill  Magazine  and  in  the  next  year  his  brilliant 
study,  Frangols  Villon,  Student,  Poet  and  House  Breaker, 
in  the  same  magazine.  In  1875  he  had  written  two  ron- 
dels, which  he  forwarded  to  Mrs.  Sitwell  from  France, 
writing  to  her,  "I  send  you  here  two  rondeaux;  I  don't 
suppose  they  will  amuse  anybody  but  me;  but  this  meas- 
ure, short  and  yet  intricate,  is  just  what  I  desire;  and  I 
have  had  some  good  times  walking  along  the  glaring 
roads  or  down  the  poplar  alley  of  the  great  canal,  fitting 
my  own  humor  to  this  old  verse." 

When  Stevenson  was  at  Saranac  Lake,  in  1887,  he 
wrote  to  Henley  a  criticism  of  Gleeson  White's  Ballades 
and  Rondeaus  which  had  just  appeared.  "I  got  your 
Gleeson  White;  your  best  work  and  either  the  best  or 
second  best  in  the  book  is  the  Ballade  in  Hot  Weather; 
that  is  really  a  masterpiece  of  melody  and  fancy.  Damn 
your  Villanelles — and  everybody's.  G.  Macdonald 
comes  out  strong  in  his  two  pious  rondels;  Pons  Ban- 
dusicE  seems  as  exquisite  as  ever.  .  .  .  Lang  cuts  a  poor 
figure  except  in  the  cricket  one;  your  patter  ballade  is  a 
great  tour  de  force,  but  spoiled  by  similar  caesuras.  On 
the  whole,  'tis  a  ridiculous  volume,  and  I  had  more 
pleasure  out  of  it  than  I  expected.  I  forgot  to  praise 
Grant  Allen's  excellent  ballade,  which  is  the  one  that 
runs  with  yours."  Since  this  collection  of  Gleeson 
White's,  which  was  dedicated  to  Stevenson  himself,  no 
similar  anthology  has  appeared  until  the  present  one.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Gleeson  White,  who  died  in 
1916,  produced  a  collection  of  poetry  worthy  of  rank 


90  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

with  the  best  of  our  poetic  anthologies.  His  introductory 
notes  on  the  early  use  of  the  forms  have  a  very  real 
charm  of  their  ow^n. 

The  hold  which  the  forms  took  on  the  minds  of  the 
younger  poets  is  illustrated  by  a  sentence  from  Oscar 
Wilde's  review  of  Pater's  Affreciations.  He  begins  his 
review  by  describing  his  first  meeting  with  Pater  and 
then  goes  on  to  say,  "It  was  during  my  undergraduate 
days  at  Oxford;  days  of  lyrical  ardours  and  of  studious 
sonnet-writing;  days  when  one  loved  the  exquisite  intri- 
cacy and  musical  repetitions  of  the  ballade,  and  the  vil- 
lanelle  with  its  linked  long-drawn  echoes  and  its  curious 
completeness;  days  when  one  solemnly  sought  to  discover 
the  proper  temper  in  which  a  triolet  should  be  written; 
delightful  days,  in  which  I  am  glad  to  say,  there  was 
far  more   rhyme   than   reason." 

It  was  Dobson's  Proverbs  in  Porcelain  that  introduced 
the  forms  to  America  in  the  spring  of  1878.  Brander 
Matthews  and  H.  C.  Bunner  immediately  began  to 
spread  the  gospel.  Brander  Matthews  reviewed  the  vol- 
ume for  the  Nationy  of  May  2,  1878,  and  published  a 
paper  called  Varieties  of  Verse  in  Afpleton^s  Journal  for 
June,  1878,  on  the  theory  and  practice  of  these  metrical 
experiments.  Both  Bunner  and  Matthews  contributed  to 
Scribner^s  Monthly  and  Puck  the  earliest  American  ex- 
amples of  the  rondeau,  the  ballade  and  the  triolet.  Bun- 
ner did  not  always  write  under  his  own  name  in  Puck. 
In  fact,  his  rondeaus,  An  Afril  Fooly  St.  Valentine  and 
That  New  Yearns  Call  appeared  over  his  pen  name  of 
Victor  Hugo  Dusenbury,  P.  P.,  these  letters  standing 
for  the  title  Professional  Poet. 

That  these  lyric  forms  from  France  have  held  their 
own  despite  the  interest  of  poetry  lovers  in  freer  verse 
patterns,  may  indicate  that  they  have  been  taken  over 
permanently  by  the  English-speaking  races.  Certainly 
the  anthology  that  follows  contains  in  addition  to  those 


THEIR  HISTORY  AND  USE  91 

writers  of  familiar  verse  whom  we  should  expect  to  find, 
the  names  of  many  other  writers  habitually  associated 
in  our  minds  with  poetry  of  an  entirely  different  char- 
acter. The  list  includes  a  reasonably  large  proportion 
of  the  poets  of  importance  in  England  and  America  since 
1875. 

What  Dobson,  Swinburne,  and  Gosse  intended  has  \ 
happened.  The  ballade  and  the  rondeau,  at  least,  are 
completely  acclimated.  They  have  their  own  moods 
and  occasions,  their  own  aptitudes  and  ideas.  Their 
themes  range  all  the  way  from  vulgar  buffoonery  and 
violent  burlesque  to  delicate  humours  and  glancing  satire; 
from  idle  compliment  to  glowing  passion.  The  bal- 
lade and  the  rondeau  seem  to  have  established  themselves 
as  genuine  poetic  instrumentalities. 

The  triolet  is  dedicated  particularly  to  the  uses  of 
English  familiar  verse.  Only  George  Macdonald  and 
Ernest  Radford  have  turned  it  to  more  serious  account. 
The  sestina  remains  an  exotic.  The  villanelle  appears 
to  be  growing  in  favor.  Aldous  Huxley,  commenting 
on  Dowson's  use  of  the  villanelle,  writes,  "Well  han- 
dled, the  form  is  capable  of  very  great  beauty." 

The  forms  are  a  perpetual  invitation  to  the  apprentice 
in  metrics,  and  for  that  reason  they  tend  to  direct  gen- 
eral attention  to  the  mechanism  of  verse  and  hence  to 
enhance  the  enjoyment  of  poetry.  The  Rule  of  Thumb 
for  the  Construction  of  the  Forms  in  English  Verse  is 
included  in  this  volume  as  a  guide  to  the  amateur 
spirit  ranging  the  lower  reaches  of  Parnassus. 


92 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


O  rt 
H  > 


Total 
Number 
of  Lines 

00    lo 

CM      CO 

00  o  CM  m 
■*  vo  >o  VO 

^ 

o 

VO 

Special 
Features 

Address  to 
"Prince  or 
other    digni- 
tary"  at  be- 
ginning   of 
envoy   op- 
tional.    Line 
of  5  accents 
nsnal 

Envoy    like 
ballade. 
Note  Hen- 
ley's 11 -line 
stanza 

Envoy  like 
ballade.     All 
mid-stanza 
refrains 
alike.     All 
refrains  at 
end   of 

N 

c 

Same  as 
ballade 

Position  of 

Refrain 

as  Line 

8,  16, 
24,  28 

10,  20, 

30,  35 

Last  line  of 
•very  stanza 
and  last  line 
of  envoy 
where  there 
is  one 

4,  8.  12,  16. 
20,  24,  26,  28 

11,  22,  33, 

44,  55,  60 

Rhyme 

Scheme 

of  Envoy 

b,  c,  b,  c, 

c,  c,  d, 
c,d 

Like  the 
ballade 

d.  d.  e. 
d,  e. 

O 

w 

Q 
< 

,-1 
< 

pq 

Number 
of  Lines 
in  Envoy 

•*    li-) 

Like  the 
ballade 

■* 

m 

en      to 

c 

-i-t 

O 

Like  the 
ballade 

tn 

Rhyme 
Scheme 

a,  b,  a.  b, 

b,  c,  b,  c 

a,  b,  a,  b, 

b,  c,  c,  d, 
c.  d. 

a,  b,  a,  b, 

b,  c,  b,  c, 

a,  b,  a,  b. 

c,  c,  d,  d, 

e.  d.  e 

Number 

of  Lines 

in  Stanza 

00    o 

Like  the 
ballade 

00 

t— 1 

Number 

of 
Stanzas 

Cj       CO 

vo 

CO 

lO 

Ballade 
Type  I 

Type  II 

Ballade 

A 
Double 
Refrain 

Chant 
Royal 

RULE  OF  THUMB 


93 


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5. 


^ 


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a.s    -' 


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CO  — 

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I      I      I      I      I      I 

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o-g  o 


CO  10  Tj-  (VI  ,—1  VO  tr- 
ill      I       I       1    ^ 
C\l  .— 1  vo  CO  10  -^        __ 

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^^ 

<"    r-  'C  ^     .,     0 

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J-    II    C    =!               3 

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^  en       II  ^      _i      -o 

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H-, 

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94- 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


Special 
Features 

Lines   of   3  ac- 
cents and  4  ac- 
cents common 

Swinburne     fa- 
vored line  of  6 
feet     and     fre- 
quent   anapaests 

(1)  Any  rhyme 
order    may    be 
followed  so  long 
as  only  2  rhymes 
are  used 

(2)  New  mean- 
ing to  be  given 
to  refrain  when 
repeated  for  last 
line 

r  Rhymes  as 
1      in 
t.     Rondel 
1  Play  on  mean- 
<  ing  of  refrain 
L  as   in   Rondel 

Nutnber 

of 
Stansas 

1— « 

CO 

ro                   fO 

fO               CM 

VO 

Position   of  Refrain 
as  Line 

Repeated  as  lines   1   and 
2;    7   and   8;    the   first 
line  only  as   line  4 

First   part   of   first   line; 
after  third  line;   after 
ninth  line 

As  lines  1  and  2;  7  and 
8;   13  and  14 

As  lines  1  and  2;  7  and 
8.      First    line    of    re- 
frain   only    as    line    13 

First   part   of    first    line; 
after  line  5 ;  after  line 
13 

After     sixth    and    after 
tenth   line 

O)  m  ^  U-J  "  ^ 

N                            Si  •- 

C  ,     -     _      G    en_ 

5               ~       <u 

en                             u    G 

Q  J   3   s    ^  <*H  x; 

G                     <U         G 
.3                       en          ^ 

<+H    -        -        -        J3      <U 

^                S  S 
II  II  II  Ilt5&2 

r-"        M        CO        -^          U       U.       (/) 

^D:iPi;C£lto 

Length  of 
Refrain 

en 

G 

O 

As  in  rondeau,  but 
refrain       always 
rhymes  with  "b" 

Two  lines 
Two  lines 

First  part  of  first 
line  =  "R" 

First  word  of  first 
-line 

«  II* 

to 

Rhyme 
Scheme 

A,  B,  a,  A,  a 
b,  A,  B 

a,    b,    a,    R;    b, 
a,  b;  a,  b,  a,  R 

A,  B,  a,  b ;  b,  a, 
A,  B ;  a,  b.  a,  b. 
A,  B 

A,  B,  b,  a ;  a,  b, 
A,  B ;  a,  b,  b, 
a,  A 

a,  a,  b,  b,  a;  a, 

a,  b,  R;  a,  a,  b, 

b,  a,  R 

a,  b,  b,  a,  a,  b, 
R;  a,  b,  b,  a,  R 

a,  b,    a,    b    for 
stanzas       one, 
three,  and  five ; 

b,  a,   b,   a,    for 
stanzas  two  and 
four;b,a,b,a,R, 
for  sixth  stanza 

Number 
of  Lines 

00 

o\ 

1—1              .—1 

<*5                      <0 

t 

CM 

M 
-1 
O 

3 

H         I 

1 

Rondel 
Type  I 

Type  II 

Rondeau 
Type  I 

Type  II 

5 '3 

O   w 

THE  ANTHOLOGY 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


BALLADES 

Adams,  Franklin  P. 

Ballade  of  Schopenhauer's  Philosophy 
Aldington,  Richard 

Epitaph  in  Ballade   Form    (Villon) 
Allen,  Grant 

A  Ballade  of  Evolution   . 
Black,  William 

Ballade   of    Solitude 
Burgess,  Gelett 

Ballade  of  Fog  in  the  Caiion  . 

Ballade  of  the  Cognoscenti 
Bynner,  Witter 

'The  Loves  of  Every  Day' 
Cabell,  James  Branch 

Foot-Note    for   Idyls 

Ronsard  Re-Voices  a  Truism    . 

Story  of  the  Flowery  Kingdom 

The   Hoidens     .... 

Villon  Quits   France 
Chesterton,  G.  K. 

A  Ballade  of  a  Book-Reviewer 

A  Ballade  of  Suicide 

A  Ballade  of  the   First   Rain 
Chalmers,  Patrick  R. 

Ballade  of  August    . 

Ballade  of  Crying  for  the  Moon 

Ballade  of  the  Forest  in  Summer 
Daly,  T.  A. 

A  Ballade  of  Brides 

Ballade  of  the  Tempting  Book 

Ballade  to  the  Women     . 
DoBSON,  Austin 

A  Ballad  of  Heroes 

A  Ballad  to  Queen  Elizabeth 

97 


Page 

246 

123 

227 

192 

182 
198 

214- 

201 
135 
230 
206 
134 

237 

247 
175 

186 
244 
188 

223 
236 
225 

204 
164 


98 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


On  a  Fan  that  Belonged  to  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour 

"O    Navis" 

The  Ballad  of  Imitation 

The  Ballad  of  the  Thrush      . 

The  Prodigals 
Elton,  O. 

Ballade  des  infants  Sans  Souci  (From  Albert  Glatigny) 
Field,  Eugene 

Ballade  of  Women  I  Love 

GossE,  Edmund 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Cities      . 

Theodore   de  Banville 
GuiTERMAN,  Arthur 

Pallade  of  Caution 

Ballade  of  Dime  Novels 
Henley,  W.  E. 

Ballade  of  Antique  Dances 

Ballade   of  Aspiration 

Ballade  of  a  Toyakuni   Colour  Print 

Ballade  of  Dead  Actors 

Ballade  of  June        .... 

Ballade  of  Ladies'  Names 

Ballade  of  Spring     .... 

Ballade  of  Truisms 
Hooker,  Brian 

Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose 
Johnson,  Burges 

Ballade  of  the  Little  Things  that  Count 
Johnson,  Lionel 

Ballade  of  the  Ca.xton  Head   . 
Kilmer,  Joyce 

Ballade  of  My  Lady's  Beauty 

Princess  Ballade 

Lang,  Andrew 

A  Very  Woful  Ballade  of  the  Art  Critic 

Ballade  des   Pendus    (Gringoire) 

Ballade  for  the  Laureate  (After  Theodore  de 

Ballade  of  Christmas    Ghosts 

Ballade  of  Dead   Cities    .... 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies   (After  Villon) 

Ballade  of  Old   Plays      .... 

Ballade  of  Primitive    Man 

Ballade  of  the  Girton  Girl     . 


Banville) 


Page 
153 
165 
238 
178 

lis 

142 

219 

143 
141 

229 
242 

154 
180 
155 
149 
179 
220 
177 
202 

209 

226 

233 

212 
185 

240 
127 
138 
170 
144 
128 
152 
228 
221 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


99 


Ballade  of  the  Southern   Cross 

Ballade  of  the   Unattainable    . 

Ballade  to  Theocritus,  in  Winter 

Ballad  of  the  Gibbet 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard 

A  Ballade  of  Old   Sweethearts 

Ballade  Against  the  Enemies  of  France  (Villon) 

Ballade  of  Old   Laughter 

Ballade  of  the  Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon 

Ballade  of  the  Things   that   Remain 

Ballade  of  the   Unchanging  Beauty 
Levy,  Newman  (and  Salsbury,  Nate) 

Ballade  of  the  Ancient  Wheeze 
Macaulay,  Rose 

Ballade  of  Dreams   .... 
Marquis,  Don 

'King  Pandion,  He  Is  Dead'    . 
Matthews,  Brander 

A  Ballade  of  Midsummer 

An  American   Girl    .... 

The  Ballade  of  Adaptation     . 

The  Ballade  of  Fact  and   Fiction 
McCarthy,  Justin  Huntley 

A  Ballade  of  Roses 
Moore,  George 

The  Ballade   of  Lovelace 
Moran,  John 

'From  Battle,  Murder  and  Sudden  Death,  Good  Lord 
Deliver    Us'  ....... 

Morley,  Christopher 

Ballade  of  Books  Unbought 

Ballade  of  the  Lost  Refrain 
Moulton,  Louise  Chandler 

In    Winter 
Ogilvie,  Will  H. 

Ballade  of  Windy  Nights 
Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 

The    Pixies 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 

A  Ballade  of  Calypso 
Robinson,  A.  Mary  F. 

A  Ballad   of   Heroes 


166 

234 

173 

126 

215 

122 

249 

217 

189 

156 

248 

194 

197 

184 
222 
239 
241 

210 

218 


199 

235 
118 

171 

169 

172 

216 
203 


100 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington 

Ballade  by  the    Fire 

Ballade   of  Broken    Flutes 
Robinson,  Edwin  Meade 

Ballade  of  a    Backslider 

Ballade  of  Easter  Dawn 
Ropes,  Arthur  Reed 

Ballade  of  a  Garden 
Sackville,  Lady  Margaret 

Ballade   of   the   Journey's   End 
Salsbury,  Nate  (and  Levy,  Newman) 

Ballade  of  the  Ancient  Wheeze 
Scollard,  Clinton 

A  Ballade  of  Midsummer 

Alas,  for  the  Fleet  Wings  of  Time 

Alone    in   Arcady 

Ballade   of   Dead   Poets    . 

Farewell,   Farewell,   Old  Year 

For  Me  the  Blithe  Ballade 

Where  are  the  Ships  of  Tyre 
Sharp,  William 

Ballade   of  the   Sea-Folk 

Ballade  of  Vain   Hopes    . 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 

To  Austin   Dobson 

Stephen,  J.  K. 

The  Ballade  of  the  Incompetent  Ballade-Monger 
Strong,  Archibald  T. 

Ballade  of  the  Nightingale  (Theodore  de  Banville) 

Ballade  of  Women    (Theodore  de   Banville) 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 

A  Ballad  at  Parting 

A  Ballad  of  Appeal 

A  Ballad  of  Bath     . 

A  Ballad  of  Dreamland 

A  Ballad  of  Frangois  Villon 

A  Ballad  of  Sark     . 

Ballad  Against  the  Enemies  of  France  (Villon) 

Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old  Time    (Villon) 

Ballad  of  the  Women   of   Paris    (Villon) 

Ballad  Written  for  a  Bridegroom   (Villon) 

Heartsease  Country   ...... 

In   the   Water    ....... 

The  Ballad   of  Melicertes        .... 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY  101 

Page 
The  Epitaph  in  Form  of  a  Ballad   (Villon)  .124 

Symons,  Arthur 

A  Ballade   of   Kings 150 

Taylor,  B.  L. 

A  Ballade  of  Irresolution  .         .         .         .         .211 

A  Ballade  of  Spring's  Unrest  .         .         .         .         .181 

Ballade  of  the  Oubliette 243 

Ballade  of  the  Pipesmoke  Carry    .         .         .         .         .183 

ToMSON,  Graham  R. 

Asphodel 193 

Dead   Poets 146 

The  Flight  of  Nicolete 213 

The  Marsh   of   Acheron 200 

The  Optimist 245 

Tyerman,  Nelson  Rich 

Ballad:  Before   My   Bookshelves 231 

Wells,  Carolyn 

Ballade   of   Indignation 120 

White,  Gleeson 

With  Fitzgerald's  "Omar  Khayyam"      .         .         .         .232 

Woods,  Margaret  L. 

A  Ballade  of  the  Night 168 

BALLADES  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN 

DoBSON,  Austin 

The  Ballade  of  Prose  and  Rhyme  .....  260 
Henley,  W.  E. 

Ballade  of  Midsummer  Days  and  Nights      .         .         .      25+ 

Ballade  of  Youth   and   Age 256 

Lang,  Andrew 

Ballade  of  the  Real  and  Ideal 258 

Matthews,  Brander 

Rain    and    Shine 255 

Robinson,  Edwin  Meade 

Ballade  a  Double  Refrain        .         .         .         .         .         .253 

Taylor,  B.  L. 

Ballade  of  Death  and  Time 259 

Wells,  Carolyn 

Ballade  of  Wisdom  and  Folly 257 

DOUBLE  BALLADES 

Henley,  W.  E. 

Double  Ballade  of  Life  and  Fate 266 


102 


LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


Double  Ballade  of  the  Nothingness  of   Things 
Payne,  John 

Double  Ballad  of  the  Singers  of  the  Time   . 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 

A  Double  Ballad  of  August    .... 

A  Double  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel 


Page 
269 

263 

265 
268 


CHANTS  ROYAL 

Burgess,  Gelett 

Chant    Royal    of   California    . 

Chant  Royal  of  the  True  Romance 
DoBSON,  Austin 

The   Dance   of   Death 
GossE,  Edmund 

The  Praise  of  Dionysus   . 
Hooker,  Brian 

Ballade    of   Farewell 
Payne,  John 

Chant  Royal  of  the  God  of  Love 
Pfeiffer,  Emily 

The  Chant  of  the  Children  of  the  Mist 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard 

The  Destined  Maid:  A  Prayer 
Marquis,  Don 

Chant  of  the  Changing  Hours 
Scollard,  Clinton 

King  Boreas      .... 
Talbot,  Ethel 

Chant  Royal  of  August   . 
Waddington,  Samuel 

The  New  Epiphany 


293 
291 

277 

275 

295 

280 

286 

282 

279 

288 

284 

290 


RONDELS 

Baker,  Karle  Wilson 

Rondel   for  September .316 

BuNNER,  Henry  Cuyler 

O   Honey  of  Hymettus  Hill 315 

Ready  for  the  Ride — 1795 30  3 

Burgess,  Gelett 

Rondel  of  Perfect  Friendship 308 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY  103 

Crane,  Walter  Page 

Rondel '  .      305 

Rondel 306 

DoBsoN,  Austin 

The   Wanderer  .  307 

"Vitas   Hinnuleo" 307 

Drinkwater,  John 

Earth   Love 318 

Roundels  of  the  Year .312 

GossE,  Edmund 

Rondel   (After  Anyte  of  Tegea) 318 

Henley,  W.  E. 

Rondel 319 

Variations .311 

Lang,  Andrew 

Rondel   (Charles  d'Orleans) 301 

Macdonald,  George 

Two  Rondels .317 

McCarthy,  Justin  Huntley 

Rondel 306 

Moore,  George 

Rondels 314 

Morley,  Christopher 

Rondel  (After  Charles  d'Orleans)  .         .         .         .301 

Twilight  308 

Payne,  John 

Rondel 304 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 

'Before  the  Dawn' 316 

Ropes,  Arthur  Reed 

From  Theodore  de  Banville 302 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

Upon  the  Stair  I  See  My  Lady  Stand  .  .  .  .303 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 

"Awake,  Awake!" 305 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 

Far  Have  You  Come,  My  Lady,  from  the  Town   .         .      310 

Since  I  Am  Sworn  to  Live  My  Life  ....  309 
■      We'll  Walk  the  Woods  No  More 309 

RONDEAUS 

Bates,  Arlo 

In  Thy  Clear  Eyes 340 


104  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Page 

Might  Love  Be  Bought 339 

Bridges,  Robert 

Rondeau .331 

Rondeau 332 

BuNNER,  Henry  Cuyler 

An   April   Fool 352 

Les  Morts  Vont  Vite 365 

Saint  Valentine 35  3 

That  New  Year's  Call 35  2 

Burgess,  Gelett 

Rondeau:  Oh,  in  My  Dreams  I  Flew    ....  366 

Cabell,  James  Branch 

Fancies  in  Filigree .323 

Grave  Gallantry 367 

Compton-Rickett,  Arthur 

O  Winds  that  Wail 365 

Crane,  Walter 

'In  Love's  Disport' 336 

'What  Makes  the  World?' 337 

Daly,  T.  A. 

At  Home 348 

Dobson,  Austin 

After  Watteau 325 

A  Greeting 325 

"Farewell,  Renown!" 328 

In   After  Days 329 

"O    Fons    Bandusii'" 327 

"On   London   Stones" 329 

To   Daffodils 326 

"When  Burbadge  Played" 326 

"When  Finis  Comes" 3  30 

"With  Pipe  and  Flute" 328 

DowsoN,  Ernest 

Rondeau 342 

Gosse,  Edmund 

Fortunate  Love 333 

Rondeau 332 

Grant,  Robert 

Rondeaux   of   Cities           ......         .  346 

Henley,  W.  E. 

If  I  Were  King 345 

My  Love  to  Me 344 

The  Gods  Are  Dead 362 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY  105 

Page 

What  Is  To  Come 363 

With   Strawberries 356 

Lang,  Andrew 

Rondeaux  of  the  Galleries 355 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard 

With  Pipe  and  Book 360 

Macaulay,  Rose 

Old    Year .361 

The  New  Year 361 

Mackintosh,  E.  A. 

To   Catullus 358 

Marquis,  Don 

The  Rondeau 323 

Martin,  Ada  Louise 

Sleep 362 

Marzials,  Theo. 

To   Tamaris 343 

Matheson,  Annie 

Rondeau 338 

Matthews,  Brander 

Les  Morts  Vont  Vite 366 

Sub  Rosa    . 351 

The  Old  and  the  New 360 

McCarthy,  Justin  Huntley 

If  I  Were  King 345 

Love  in  London 346 

McCrae,  John 

In  Flanders  Fields 370 

Monkhouse,  Cosmo 

O  Scorn  Me  Not 343 

'Violet' 356 

MoRLEY,  Christopher 

All   Lovely   Things 342 

For  a  Birthday 349 

To  R.L.S 358 

When  Shakespeare  Laughed 359 

MouLTON,  Louise  Chandler 

If  Love  Could  Last 341 

Napier,  Eliott 

All  Men  Are  Free 369 

Payne,  John 

Rondeau 340 


106  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Page 
Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 

Among  My  Books ■     .      357 

Beyond  the  Night 364 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 

'Without  One  Kiss' 338 

Robinson,  Edwin  Meade 

In  Visionshire .354 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 

To  Death,  Of  His  Lady  (Villon)  ...         .367 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

At  Peep   of  Dawn 354 

Vis   Erotis 339 

Seaman,  Sir  Owen 

To    Austin    Dobson.      After    Himself.      (Rondeau    of 

Villon) 330 

Stanton,  Gareth  Marsh 

Rondeau 341 

Stetson,  Charlotte  Perkins 

A  Man  Must  Live 369 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 

Rondel 331 

ToMSON,  Graham  R. 

In  Beechen  Shade .357 

The  Gates   of   Horn 363 

Untermeyer,  Louis 

A    Father    Speaks 350 

Wells,  Carolyn 

Her  Spinning-Wheel 349 

Maiden  Meditation 351 


ROUNDELS 

Cabell,  James  Branch 

Arcadians  Confer  in   Exile 490 

Compton-Rickett,  Arthur 

A  Roundel 382 

Levy,  Amy 

Between  the  Showers 382 

Straw  in  the  Street .383 

Stephen,  J.  K. 

Regrets.     A  Rondel 490 

The  Poet's  Prayer 384 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY  107 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles  Page 

At  Sea 377 

Babyhood 374 

Etude  Realiste 373 

Flower-Pieces 376 

Past  Days 380 

The  Roundel 373 

Three   Faces 378 

To  Catullus 379 

Two  Preludes .381 

Symons,  Arthur 

A  Roundel  of  Rest 383 

Waddington,  Samuel 

Mors   et   Vita 38+ 


RONDEAUX  REDOUBLES 

Burgess,  Gelett 

A  Daughter  of  the  North 389 

Monkhouse,  Cosmo 

Rondeau  Redouble 390 

Payne,  John 

Rondeau  Redouble 389 

Scollard,  Clinton 

The  Prayer  of  Dryope .387 

ToMSON,  Graham  R. 

Rondeau  Redouble .388 

Untermeyer,  Louis 

A  Complacent  Rondeau  Redouble 391 


TRIOLETS 

Bates,  Arlo 

A  Rose 400 

Bridges,  Robert 

Triolet 402 

Triolet 402 

Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler 

A  Pitcher  of  Mignonette  .  .  •  .  .  .  .  395 
Crane,  Walter 

Triolet 409 

Crapsey,  Adelaide 

Song 411 


108  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Daly,  T.  A.  Page 

Mistletoe  and  Holly 397 

DoBSON,  Austin 

"Persicos   Odi" 404 

Rose-Leaves 397 

GossE,  Edmund 

Triolet,  After  Catullus 404 

GuiTERMAN,  Arthur 

Apolog-y 401 

Parable 402 

Henley,  W,  E. 

Triolet 395 

Lang,  Andrew 

Triolets  After  Moschus 404 

Triolet  to  Her  Husband  (A.  Fertiault)  .         .         .406 

Learned,  Walter 

In    Explanation 400 

Macdonald,  George 

Serenade   Triolet 408 

Song 408 

Triolet 411 

Marquis,  Don 

The  Triolet 395 

Matthews,  Brander 

August?  :  Hottest  Day  of  the  Year        ....      396 

MouLTON,  Louise  Chandler 

Thistle-Down 403 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 

Under  the  Rose 399 

Radford,  Ernest 

Six  Triolets .406 

The  Shelley  Memorial 405 

Robertson,  Harrison 

Two  Triolets .401 

Sayle,  Charles 

Triolet  of  the  Bibliophile -.405 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

A  Snowflake  in  May 396 

Symons,  Arthur 

Vestigia 410 

ToMSON,    Graham  R. 

Blind   Love 403 

Les   Roses   Mortes 396 

Of   Himself 403 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY  109 


VILLANELLES 

Adams,  Franklin  P.  Page 
Villanelle,  With  Stevenson's  Assistance   .         .         .         .441 

Akins,  Zoe 

Villanelle  of  City  and  Country 439 

Andrews,  Margaret  Lovell 

At  a  Breton  Sea-Blessing.     Breton  Villanelle         .         .  434 

DoBsoN,  Austin 

"A  Voice  in  the  Scented  Night."     Villanelle  at  Verona  416 
For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus        .         .         .         .         .         .417 

On  a  Nankin  Plate 418 

"When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose" 417 

Dowson,  Ernest 

Villanelle  of  Acheron 422 

Villanelle  of  His  Lady's  Treasures         ....  424 

Villanelle  of  Marguerites         .         .         ...         .         .  422 

Villanelle  of  Sunset 423 

Villanelle  of  the  Poet's  Road 424 

GossE,  Edmund 

Villanelle 415 

Villanelle            415 

Henley,  W.  E. 

Villanelle 420 

Villanelle 421 

Lang,  Andrew 

Villanelle 419 

Villanelle 420 

Megroz,  R.  L. 

A  Villanelle  of  Love        . 433 

Ogilvie,  Will  H. 

Villanelle 435 

Payne,  John 

Villanelle 427 

Villanelle 428 

Pfeiffer,  Emily 

When  the  Brow  of  June .436 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington 

The  House  on  the  Hill 437 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

Love,  Why  So  Long  Away 432 

Villanelle  to  Helen 431 

Villanelle  to  the  Daffodil 430 


110  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Stanton,  Gareth  Marsh  Page 

Villanelle 433 

Thirlmere,  Rowland 

My  Dead  Dogs 438 

Thomas,  Edith  M. 

Across  the  World  I  Speak  to  Thee         .         .         .        .437 

ToMSON,  Graham  R. 

Jean-Francois  Millet 430 

To  Hesperus 429 

Untermeyer,  Louis 

Lugubrious  Villanelle  of  Platitudes      ....      440 

Wilde,  Oscar 

Pan — A  Villanelle 425 

Theocritus 426 

SESTINAS 

Burgess,  Gelett 

Sestina  of  Youth  and  Age 457 

Cabell,  James  Branch 

The  Conqueror  Passes 446 

Gosse,  Edmund 

Sestina 445 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

Sestina  of  the  Tramp-Royal 458 

Robinson,  A.  Mary  F. 

Pulvis  et  Umbra 454 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

Cupid   and  the  Shepherd 455 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 

The  Complaint  of  Lisa 449 

Rizzio's    Love-Song 447 

Sestina 453 

PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES 

Adams,  Franklin  P. 

Such  Stuff  as  Dreams 484 

Anonymous 

The  Prodigals  (After  Austin  Dobson)    ....  464 

Anthony,  Edward 

Ballade  of  Dottiness 470 

Epitaph  for  a  Deserving  Lady 48  5 

He  Collected  His  Thoughts 484 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


111 


BuNNER,  Henry  Cuyler 

Behold    the    Deeds 

On  Newport  Beach 

The  Ballade  of  the  Summer  Boarder 
Davey,  Norman 

The    Sestina   of    the    Minor   Poet    . 
Deane,  Anthony  C. 

Contributed  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang 
Henley,  W.  E. 

Culture  in  the  Slums        .... 

Villon's  Straight  Tip  to  All  Cross  Coves 
Herbert,  A.  P. 

Ballade  of  Incipient  Lunacy    . 
Johnson,  Burges 

A  Rondeau  of  Remorse   .... 
Marquis,  Don 

Chant  Royal  of  the  Dejected  Dipsomaniac 
Moore,  Augustus  M. 

A  Ballade  of  Ballade-Mongers 
Untermeyer,  Louis 

A  Burlesque  Rondo  .... 

Austin  Dobson  Recites  a  Ballade  by  Way  of 

Ballade 

Nocturne  ...... 

The  Passionate  Esthete  to  His  Love.  Andrew  Lang 
and  Oscar  Wilde  Turn  a  Nursery  Rhyme  into  a 
Rondeau   Redouble      ....... 

The  Poet  Betrayed.  Heinrich  Heine  and  Clinton  Scol- 
lard  Construct  a  Rondeau  .         .         .         .         . 

Triolet =         . 


Retort 


Page 

479 
472 
471 

483 

466 

472 
475 

468 

476 

481 

463 

476 
465 
467 
485 

477 

477 
467 


ADAPTATIONS 

Hunt,  Leigh 

Rondeau 

Lang,  Andrew 

Rondel    (Fran(^ois  Villon,    1460)     . 

Rondel   (Charles  d'Orleans) 
McCarthy,  Justin  Huntley 

I   Wonder  in  What  Isle  of  Bliss    . 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 

His  Mother's  Service  to  Our  Lady  (Villon) 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies   (Villon)     . 
Sharp,  William 

Ballade  of  the  Song  of  the  Sea-Wind  . 


492 

489 
489 

494 

492 
493 

157 


BALLADES 


THE  PRODIGALS 

"Princes! — and  you,  most  valorous, 

Nobles  and  Barons  of  all  degrees! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 

Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas! 

Nothing  we  ask  or  of  gold  or  fees; 
Harry  us  not  with  the  hounds  we  pray; 

Lo, — for  the  surcote's  hem  we  seize, — 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

"Dames  most  delicate,  amorous! 

Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  bees! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 

Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that  please; 
Weary  are  we,  and  worn,  and  gray; 

Lo, — for  we  clutch  and  we  clasp  your  knees, — 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

"Damosels — Dames,  be  piteous!" 

(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the  roadway  trees.) 
"Hear  us,  O  Knights  magnanimous!" 

(But  the  knights  pricked  on  in  their  panoplies.) 
Nothing  they  gat  or  of  hope  or  ease. 
But  only  to  beat  on  the  breast  and  say: — 

"Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and  lees; 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

ENVOY 

Youth,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of  these! 
Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way, — 

Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  seas 
"Give  us — ah!   give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

Austin  Dobson 
115 


116  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


TO  AUSTIN  DOBSON  * 

From  the  sunny  climes  of  France, 

Flying  to  the  west, 
Came  a  flock  of  birds  by  chance. 

There  to  sing  and  rest: 
Of  some  secrets  deep  in  quest, — 

Justice  for  their  wrongs, — 
Seeking  one  to  shield  their  breast, 

One  to  write  their  songs. 

Melodies  of  old  romance, 

Joy  and  gentle  jest, 
Notes  that  made  the  dull  heart  dance 

With  a  merry  zest; — 
Maids  in  matchless  beauty  drest. 

Youths  in  happy  throngs; — 
These  they  set  to  tempt  and  test 

One  to  write  their  songs. 

In  old  London's  wide  expanse 

Built  each  feathered  guest, — 
Man's  small  pleasure  to  enhance, 

Singing  him  to  rest, — 
Came,  and  tenderly  confessed. 

Perched  on  leafy  prongs. 
Life  were  sweet  if  they  possessed 

One  to  write  their  songs. 

ENVOY 

Austin,  it  was  you  they  blest: 

Fame  to  you  belongs! 
Time  has  proven  you're  the  best 

One  to  write  their  songs. 

Frank  Demfster  Sherman 

*  Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


BALLADES  117 


FOR  ME  THE  BLITHE  BALLADE 

Of  all  the  songs  that  dwell 

Where  softest  speech  doth  flow, 

Some  love  the   sweet   rondel, 
And  some  the  bright  rondeau 
With  rhymes  that  tripping  go 

In  mirthful  measures  clad; 

But  would  1  choose  them? — no. 

For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

O'er  some,  the  villanelle, 

That  sets  the  heart  aglow. 
Doth  its  enchanting  spell 

With  lines  recurring  throw; 

Some  weighed  with  wasting  woe, 
Gay  triolets  make  glad; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no, 
For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

On  chant  of  stately  swell 

With  measured  feet  and  slow. 

As  grave  as  minster  bell 
At  vesper  tolling  low, 
Do  some  their  praise  bestow; 

Some  on  sestinas  sad; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no, 

For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

ENVOY 

Prince,  to  these  songs  a-row 
The  Muse  might  endless  add; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no. 
For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

Clinton  Scollard 


118  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  LOST  REFRAIN 

In  a  vacant  mood  the  phrase  came  to  me — 

Alas!  I  neglected  to  make  it  mine — 
It  may  have  been  jocund,  or  deep  and  gloomy: 

It  is  gone,  and  has  left  no  trace  or  sign. 
It  is  gone,  and  it  might  have  been  the  line 

That  in  all  men's  memories  would  remain: 
It  is  vanished  and  never  again  will  shine — 

O  lovely  lyrical  lost  refrain! 

Though  Apollo's  golden  sandal  shoe  me, 

Dionysos  pour  me  his  purpling  wine, 
That  forgotten  snatch  will  still  pursue  me 

And  chafe  my  spirit  and  chill  my  spine: 
For  lo!  when  one  of  the  Muses  nine. 

Descending  stoops  to  a  clownish  brain. 
She  expects  him  to  note  the  hint  divine — 

O  lovely  lyrical  lost  refrain! 

And  now — no  wonder  my  joints  are  rheumy 

And  I  am  listless  to  laugh  or  dine. 
And  my  lightsome  friends  say  they  never  knew  me 

So  dolorobiliously  peak  and  pine; 
But  I  have  no  mnemonics  that  can  untwine 

That  line  so  musical,  terse,  urbane, 
Chryselephant,  nympholept,  sapphirine — 

O  lovely  lyrical  lost  refrain! 

ENVOY 

O  Muse  (as  Rosalind  said),  come  woo  me! 

My  sorrowful  heart  you  may  soothe  and  sain. 
But  never  again  will  that  thrill  run  through  me — 

O  lovely  lyrical  lost  refrain! 

Christopher  Morley 


BALLADES  119 


THE    BALLADE   OF  THE   INCOMPETENT 
BALLADE-MONGER 

I  am  not  ambitious  at  all: 

I  am  not  a  poet,  I  know 
(Though  I  do  love  to  see  a  mere  scrawl 

To  order  and  symmetry  grow). 

My  muse  is  uncertain  and  slow, 
I  am  not  expert  with  my  tools, 

I  lack  the  poetic  argot: 
But  I  hope  I  have  kept  to  the  rules. 

When  your  brain   is  undoubtedly  small, 

'Tis  hard,  sir,  to  write  in  a  row. 
Some  five  or  six  rhymes  to  Nepaul, 

And  more  than  a  dozen  to  Joe: 

The  metre  is  easier  though, 
Three  rhymes  are  sufficient  for  'ghouls,' 

My  lines  are  deficient  in  go. 
But  I  hope  I  have  kept  to  the  rules. 

Unable  to  fly  let  me  crawl. 

Your  patronage  kindly  bestow: 
I  am  not  the  author  of  Saul, 

I  am  not  Voltaire  or  Rousseau: 

I  am  not  desirous,  ©h  no! 
To  rise  from  the  ranks  of  the   fools, 

To  shine  with  Gosse,  Dobson  and  Co.: 
But  I  hope  I  have  kept  to  the  rules. 

Dear  Sir,  though  my  language  is  low. 

Let  me  dip  in  Pierian  pools: 
My  verses  are  only  so  so. 

But  I  hope  I  have  kept  to  the  rules. 

/.  K.  Stefhen 


120  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


A  BALLADE  OF  INDIGNATION 

Now  if  there  is  one  thing  I  hate 

It  is  lame  vers  de  societe, 
And  I  cannot  help  feeling  irate 

With  the  versemongers  writing  to-day. 

They  rhyme  a  thing  any  old  way, 
They  regard  neither  science  nor  schools; 

But  when  the  French  Forms  they  essay, 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

They  consider  themselves  "up-to-date" 

If  they've  written  a  Sonnet  to  May, 
And  fancy  they  feel  on  their  pate 

A  chaplet  of  laurel  or  bay. 

At  a  triolet  or  virelai 
They  rush,  like  proverbial   fools, — 

But  in  their  wild,  wordy  display 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

In  their  ignorance  boldly  elate. 

To  rhymes  no  attention  they  pay; 
They  ride  at  a  rollicking  gait 

On  a  Pegasus  madly  astray. 

No  hindrance  their  progress  will  stay. 
No  remonstrance  their  mad  ardour  cools,- 

But  in  their  syllabic  array 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 


l'envoi 


Calliope,  pardon,   I   pray, 
These  workmen   without  any  tools, 

And  to  them  this  message  convey: 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

Carolyn  Wells 


BALLADES  121 

BALLAD  AGAINST  THE  ENEMIES  OF  FRANCE 
(Francois   Villon) 

May  he  fall  in  with  beasts  that  scatter  fire, 

Like  Jason,  when  he  sought  the  fleece  of  gold, 
Or  change  from  man  to  beast  three  years  entire, 

As  King  Nebuchadnezzar  did  of  old; 
Or  else  have  times  as  shameful  and  as  bad 
As  Trojan  folk  for  ravished  Helen  had; 
Or  gulfed  with  Proserpine  and  Tantalus 
Let  hell's  deep  fen  devour  him  dolorous, 

With  worse  to  bear  than  Job's  worst  sufferance, 
Bound  in  his  prison-maze  with  Dasdalus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

May  he  four  months,  like  bitterns  in  the  mire, 

Howl  with  head  downmost  in  the  lake-springs  cold. 
Or  to  bear  harness  like  strong  bulls  for  hire 

To  the  Great  Turk  for  money  down  be  sold; 
Or  thirty  years  like  Magdalen  live  sad, 
With  neither  wool  nor  web  of  linen  clad; 
Drown  like  Narciss',  or  swing  down  pendulous 
Like  Absalom  with  locks  luxurious. 

Or  like  Judas  fallen  to  reprobance; 
Or  find  such  death  as  Simon  sorcerous, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

May  the  old  times  come  of  fierce  Octavian's  ire. 

And  in  his  belly  molten  coin  be  told; 
May  he  like  Victor  in  the  mill  expire 

Crushed  between  moving  millstones  on  him  rolled, 
Or  in  deep  sea  drenched  breathless,  more  adrad 
Than  in  the  whale's  bulk  Jonas,  when  God  bade; 
From  Phoebus'  light,   from  Juno's  treasure-house 
Driven,  and  from  joys  of  Venus  amorous. 

And  cursed  of  God  most  high  to  the  utterance, 
As  was  the  Syrian  king  Antiochus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 


122  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOY 

Prince,  may  the  bright-winged  brood  of  ^olus 
To  s  ;a-king  Glaucus'  wild  wood  cavernous 

Bear  him  bereft  of  peace  and  hope's  least  glance, 
For  worthless  is  he  to  get  good  of  us, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BALLADE  AGAINST  THE  ENEMIES  OF  FRANCE 

(Frangois  Villon) 

O  may  he  meet  with  dragons  belching  fire. 
Like  Jason,  he  who  sought  the  fleece  of  gold; 
Or  to  a  beast,  till  seven  long  years  transpire. 
Like  Nabugodonozor,  king  of  old, 
Be  changed;  or  smitten  with  as  vast  a  woe 
As  Helen's  rape  brought  Troy-town  long  ago; 
Or  swallowed  be  within  those  bogs  of  hell 
Where  Tantalus  and  Proserpina  dwell; 
More  than  Job's  sorrows  be  his  evil  chance. 
Close-snared  as  D^dalus  of  whom  men  tell. 
Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  realm  of  France! 

Four  months  head-downward  in  the  marsh's  mire, 
Even  as  the  bittern  may  he  cry;  or,  sold 
To  the  Grand  Turk  for  cash,  in  harness  dire. 
Toil  like  a  bull;  or,  as  the  tale  is  told 
Of  Magdalen,  for  thirty  long  years  go 
Sans  wool  or  linen — yea!  un vestured  so; 
Drowned  like  Narcissus  be  he;  or,  as  befel 
To  Absalom,  hang  by  the  hair;  'twere  well 
Judas'  dread  end  were  his,  or  circumstance 
Of  horror  strange  as  Simon  Magus'  spell. 
Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  realm  of  France! 


BALLADES  123 

Were  but  Octavius  king — runs  my  desire — 
With  molten  coin,  so  slowly  growing  cold, 
To  fill  his  belly;  or  might  he  expire 
Between  revolving  mill-stones  crushed  and  rolled, 
Like  good  Saint  Victor;  or  in  the  choking  flow 
Of  ocean  drown,  fate  worse  than  Jonah's  know 
In  the  great  wh?le;  him  from  thy  light  expel, 
Phoebus;  and,  Venus — punishment  more  fell — 
Deny  him  thy  sweet  self;  and  a  outrance 
Curse  him,  High  God,  with  curse  ineffable 
Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  realm  of  France! 

ENVOI 

Prince,  may  Eolus  forth  on  winds  compel 
His  soul,  where,  sunk  beneath  the  ocean's  swell, 
The  woods  of  Glaucus  gloom,  and  never  glance 
Of  hope  can  fall — in  him  what  good  can  dwell 
Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  realm  of  France! 

Richard  Le  Galliennc 


EPITAPH  IN  BALLADE  FORM 

tvhich  Villon  made  for  himself  and  his  friends^  waiting 
to  be  hanged  with  them. 

Brothers  among  men  who  after  us  shall  live, 
Let  not  your  hearts'  disdain  against  us  rise. 
For  if  some  pity  for  our  woe  ye  have 
The  sooner  God  your  pardon  shall  devise. 
Behold,  here  five  or  six  of  us  we  peize; 
As  to  our  flesh,  which  we  fed  wantonly. 
Rotten,  devoured,   it  hangeth  mournfully; 
And  we,  the  bones,  to  dust  and  ash  are  riven. 
Let  none  make  scorn  of  our  infirmity 
But  pray  to  God  that  all  we  be  forgiven. 

If,  brothers,  we  cry  out,  ye  should  not  give 
Disdain  for  answer,  even  if  justice  'tis 


124  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

That  murders  us.      This  thing  ye  should  believe. 
That  always  all  men  are  not  wholly  wise; 
Pray  often  for  us  then,  not  once  or  twice, 
Before  the  fair  Son  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
Lest  that — for  us — His  grace  prove  injury 
And  we  beneath  the  lord  of  hell  be  driven. 
Now  we  are  dead,  cease  importunity 
And  pray  to  God  that  all  we  be  forgiven. 

The  rain  doth  weaken  all  our  strength  and  lave 

Us,  the  sun  blackens  us  again  and  dries: 

Our  eyes  the  ravens  hollow  like  a  grave; 

Our  beards  and  eyebrows  are  plucked  off  by  pies. 

Never  rest  comes  to  us  in  any  wise; 

Now  here,  now  there,  as  the  wind  sways,  sway  we, 

Swung  at  the  wind's  high  pleasure  ceaselessly, 

More  pecked  by  birds  than  hazel  nuts  that  ripen. 

Be  ye  not  then  of  our  fraternity, 

But  pray  to  God  that  all  we  be  forgiven. 

ENVOI 

Prince  Jesus,  above  all  hast  mastery, 
Let  not  high  hell  become  our  seigneury, 
There  we  have  naught  to  do  nor  order  even. 
Brothers,  keep  here  no  thought  of  mockery. 
But  pray  to  God  that  all  we  be  forgiven. 

Richard  Aldington 


THE  EPITAPH  IN  FORM  OF  A  BALLAD 

which  Villon  made  for  himself  and  his  comrades^  expecting 
to  be  hanged  along  with  the?n. 

Men,   brother  men,  that  after  us  yet  live,  •A 
Let  not  your  hearts  too  hard  against  us  be;'^ 

For  if  some  pity  of  us  poor  men  ye  give, 
The  sooner  God  shall  take  of  you  pity.  ^ 


BALLADES  125 

Here  are  we  five  or  six  strung  up,  you  see,^ 
And  here  the  flesh  that  all  too  well  we  fed  '^ 
Bit  by  bit  eaten  and  rotten,  rent  and  shred,    c- 

And  we  the  bones  grow  dust  and  ash  withal  ;^>l 
Let  no  man  laugh  at  us  discomforted, 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all.  o* 

If  we  call  on  you,  brothers,  to  forgive, 

Ye  should  not  hold  our  prayer  in  scorn,  though  we 
Were  slain  by  law;  ye  know  that  all  alive 

Have  not  wit  alway  to  walk  righteously; 

Make  therefore  intercession  heartily 
With  him  that  of  a  virgin's  womb  was  bred, 
That  his  grace  be  not  as  a  dry  well-head 

For  us,  nor  let  hell's  thunder  on  us  fall; 
We  are  dead,  let  no  man  harry  or  vex  us  dead, 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

The  rain  has  washed  and  laundered  us  all  five. 
And  the  sun  dried  and  blackened;  yea,  perdie, 

Ravens  and  pies  with  beaks  that  rend  and  rive. 
Have  dug  our  eyes  out,  and  plucked  ofi"  for  fee 
Our  beards  and  eyebrows;  never  are  we  free, 

Not  once,  to  rest;  but  here  and  there  still  sped, 

Drive  at  its  wild  will  by  the  wind's  change  led. 
More  pecked  of  birds  than  fruits  on  garden-wall. 

Men,  for  God's  love,  let  no  gibe  here  be  said, 
But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

Prince  Jesus,  that  of  all  art  lord  and  head, 
Keep  us,  that  hell  be  not  our  bitter  bed; 

We  have  nought  to  do  in  such  a  master's  hall. 
Be  not  ye  therefore  of  our  fellowhead, 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


126  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLAD  OF  THE  GIBBET 

An  efitafh  in  the  form  of  a  ballad  that  Francois   Villon 
wrote  of  himself  and  his  com f any,  they  effect- 
ing shortly  to  be  hanged. 

Brothers  and  men  that  shall  after  us  be, 

Let  not  your  hearts  be  hard  to  us: 
For  pitying  this  our  misery 

Ye  shall  find  God  the  more  piteous. 

Look  on  us  six  that  are  hanging  thus, 
And  for  the  flesh  that  so  much  we  cherished 
How  it  is  eaten  of  birds  and  perished. 

And  ashes  and  dust  fill  our  bones'  place, 
Mock  not  at   us  that  so   feeble  be, 

But  pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  Grace. 

Listen,  we  pray  you,  and  look  not  in  scorn. 

Though  justly,  in  sooth,  we  are  cast  to  die; 
Ye  wot  no  man  so  wise  is  born 

That   keeps  his  wisdom   constantly. 

Be  ye  then  merciful,  and  cry 
To  Mary's  Son  that  is  piteous, 
That  His  mercy  take  no  stain  from  us. 

Saving  us  out  of  the  fiery  place. 
We  are  but  dead,  let  no  soul  deny 

To  pray  God  succour  us  of  His  grace. 

The  rain  out  of  heaven  has  washed  us  clean, 
The  sun  has  scorched  us  black  and  bare. 

Ravens  and  rocks  have  pecked  at  our  eyne, 

And  feathered  their  nests  with  our  beards  and  hair, 
Round  are  we  tossed,  and  here  and  there. 

This  way  and  that,  at  the  wild  wind's  will, 

Never  a  moment  my  body  is  still; 
Birds  they  are  busy  about  my  face. 

Live  not  as  we,  nor  fare  as  we  fare; 
Pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 


BALLADES  127 


l'envoy 


Prince  Jesus,  Master  of  all,  to  thee 
We  pray  Hell  gain  no  mastery, 

That  we  come  never  anear  that  place; 
And  ye  men,  make  no  mockery. 

Pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

Andrew  Lang 


BALLADE  DES  PENDUS     (GRINGOIRE) 

Where  wide  the  forest  boughs  are  spread, 

When  Flora  wakes  with  sylph  and  fay, 
Are  crowns  and  garlands  of  men  dead, 

All  golden  in  the  morning  gay; 
Within  this  ancient  garden  grey 

Are  clusters  such  as  no  man  knows, 
Where  Moor  and  Sol  dan  bear  the  sway: 

This  is  King  Louis'  orchard  close. 

These  wretched  folk  wave  overhead, 

With  such  strange  thoughts  as  none  may  sayj 
A  moment  still,  then  sudden  sped. 

They  swing  in  a  ring  and  waste  away. 
The  morning  smites  them  with  her  ray; 

They  toss  with  every  breeze  that  blows, 
They  dance  where  fires  of  dawning  play: 

This  is  King  Louis'  orchard  close. 

All  hanged  and  dead,  they've  summoned 

(With  Hell  to  aid  that  hears  them  pray) 
New  legions  of  an  army  dread. 

Now  down  the  blue  sky  flames  the  day; 
The  dew  dries  off";  the  foul  array 

Of  obscene  ravens  gathers  and  goes. 
With  wings  that  flap  and  beaks  that  flay: 

This  is  King  Louis'  orchard  close. 


128  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOI 

Prince,  where  leaves  murmur  of  the  May, 

A  tree  of  bitter  clusters  grows; 
The  bodies  of  men  dead  are  they, 

This  is  King  Louis'  orchard  close. 

Andrew  Lang 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  LADIES* 

After  Villon 

Nay,  tell   me  now  in  what  strange  air 
The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day. 
Where  Archippiada  hides,  and  where 
Beautiful  Thais  has  passed  away? 
Whence   answers   Echo,   afield,   astray, 
By  mere  or  stream, — around,  below? 
Lovelier  she  than  a  woman  of  clay; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

Where  is  wise  HeloTse,  that  care 
Brought  on  Abeilard,  and  dismay? 
All  for  her  love  he  found  a  snare, 
A  maimed  poor  monk  in  orders  grey; 
And  where's  the  Queen  who  willed  to  slay 
Buridan,  that  in  a  sack  must  go 
Afloat  down  Seine, — a  perilous  way — 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

Where's  that  White  Queen,  a  lily  rare, 
With  her  sweet  song,  the  Siren's  lay? 
Where's  Bertha  Broad-foot,  Beatrice  fair? 
Alys  and  Ermengarde,  where  are  they? 

*  From   Ballades   and   Verses    Vain   by  Andrew  Lang.     Copy- 
right  1884  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


BALLADES  129 

Good  Joan,  whom  English  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town,  and  burned  her?      No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

ENVOY 

Prince,  all  this  week  thou  need'st  not  pray, 
Nor  yet  this  year  the  thing  to  know. 
One  burden  answers,  ever  and  aye, 
"Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow?" 

Andrew  Lang 

BALLAD  OF  THE  LORDS  OF  OLD  TIME 

What  more?      Where  is  the  third  Calixt, 
Last  of  that  name  now  dead  and  gone, 

Who  held  four  years  the  Papalist? 
Alphonso  king  of  Aragon, 
The  gracious  lord,  duke  of  Bourbon, 

And  Arthur,  duke  of  old  Britaine? 

And  Charles  the  Seventh,  that  worthy  one? 

Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

The  Scot,  too,  king  of  mount  and  mist. 

With  half  his  face  vermilion. 
Men  tell  us,  like  an  amethyst 

From  brow  to  chin  that  blazed  and  shone; 

The  Cypriote  king  of  old  renown, 
Alas!  and  that  good  king  of  Spain, 

Whose  name  I  cannot  think  upon? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

No  more  to  say  of  them  I  list; 

'Tis  all  but  vain,  all  dead  and  done: 
For  death  may  no  man  born  resist. 

Nor  make  appeal  when  death  comes  on. 

I  make  yet  one  more  question ; 
Where's  Lancelot,  king  of  far  Bohain? 

Where's  he  whose  grandson  called  him  son?. 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 


130  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Where  is  Guesclin,  the  good  Breton? 

The  lord  of  the  eastern  mountain-chain, 
And  the  good  late  duke  of  Alengon? 

Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BALLAD  OF  THE  WOMEN  OF  PARIS 

Albeit  the  Venice  girls  get  praise 

For  their  sweet  speech  and  tender  air. 
And  tho'  the  old  women  have  wise  ways 

Of  chaffering  for  amorous  ware, 

Yet  at  my  peril  dare  I  swear, 
Search  Rome,  where  God's  grace  mainly  tarries, 

Florence  and  Savoy,  everywhere. 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

The  Naples  women,  as  folk  prattle. 

Are  sweetly  spoken  and  subtle  enough: 
German  girls  are  good  at  tattle. 

And  Prussians  make  their  boast  thereof; 

Take  Egypt  for  the  next  remove. 
Or  that  waste  land  the  Tartar  harries, 

Spain  or  Greece,  for  the  matter  of  love, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Breton  and  Swiss  know  nought  of  the  matter, 

Gascony  girls  or  girls  of  Toulouse; 
Two  fishwomen  with  a  half  hour's  chatter 

Would  shut  them  up  by  threes  and  twos; 

Calais,  Lorraine,  and  all  their  crews, 
(Names  enow  the  mad  song  marries) 

England  and  Picardy,  search  them  and  choose, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Prince,  give  praise  to  our  French  ladies 
For  the  sweet  sound  their  speaking  carries; 

'Twixt  Rome  and  Cadiz  many  a  maid  is, 
But  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BALLADES  131 


BALLAD  WRITTEN  FOR  A  BRIDEGROOM 

•which   Villon  gave   to  a  gentleman   newly  married  to   send  to 
his  wife  whom  he  had  won  with  the  sword. 

At  daybreak,  when  the  falcon  claps  his  wings, 
No  whit  for  grief,  but  noble  heart  and  high, 
With  loud  glad  noise  he  stirs  himself  and  springs, 
And  takes  his  meat  and  toward  his  lure  draws  nigh; 
Such  good  I  wish  you!      Yea,  and  heartily 
I  am  fired  with  hope  of  true  love's  meed  to  get; 
Know  that  Love  writes  it  in  his  book;  for  why. 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Mine  own  heart's  lady  with  no  gainsayings 
You  shall  be  always  wholly  till  I  die; 
And  in  my  right  against  all  bitter  things 
Sweet  laurel  with  fresh  rose  its  force  shall  try; 
Seeing  reason  wills  not  that  1  cast  love  by 
(Nor  here  with  reason  shall  I  chide  or  fret) 
Nor  cease  to  serve,  but  serve  more  constantly; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

And,  which  is  more,  when  grief  about  me  clings 
Through  Fortune's  fit  and  fume  of  jealousy, 
Your  sweet  kind  eye  beats  down  her  threatenings 
As  wind  doth  smoke;  such  power  sits  in  your  eye. 
Thus  in  your  field  my  seed  of  harvestry 
Thrives,  for  the  fruit  is  like  me  that  I  set; 
God  bids  me  tend  it  with  good  husbandry; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Princess,  give  ear  to  this  my  summary; 

That  heart  of  mine  your  heart's  love  should  forget, 

Shall  never  be;  like  trust  in  you  put  1: 

This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


132  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  BALLAD  OF  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

Prince    of   all    Ballad-Makers 

Bird  of  the  bitter  bright  grey  golden  morn 
Scarce  risen  upon  the  dusk  of  dolorous  years, 

First  of  us  all  and  sweetest  singer  born 

Whose  far  shrill  note  the  world  of  new  men  hears 
Cleave  the  cold  shuddering  shade  as  twilight  clears; 

When  song  new-born  put  off  the  old  world's  attire 

And  felt  its  tune  on  her  changed  lips  expire, 
Writ  foremost  on  the  roll  of  them  that  came 

Fresh  girt  for  service  of  the  latter  lyre, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name! 

Alas  the  joy,  the  sorrow,  and  the  scorn, 

That  clothed  thy  life  with  hopes  and  sins  and  fears,      1 
And  gave  thee  stones  for  bread  and  tares  for  corn 

And  plume-plucked  jail-birds  for  thy  starveling  peers 

Till  death  dipt  close  their  flight  with  shameful  shears; 
Till  shifts  came  short  and  loves  were  hard  to  hire. 
When  lilt  of  song  nor  twitch  of  twangling  wire 

Could  buy  thee  bread  or  kisses;  when  light  fame 
Spurned  like  a  ball  and  haled  through  brake  and  briar, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name! 

Poor  splendid  wings  so  frayed  and  soiled  and  torn! 
Poor  kind  wild  eyes  so  dashed  with  light  quick  tears! 

Poor  perfect  voice,  most  blithe  when  most  forlorn. 
That  rings  athwart  the  sea  whence  no  man  steers 
Like  joy-bells  crossed  with  death-bells  in  our  ears! 

What  far  delight  has  cooled  the  fierce  desire 
That  like  some  ravenous  bird  was  strong  to  tire 
On  that  frail  flesh  and  soul  consumed  with  flame, 

But  left  more  sweet  than  roses  to  respire, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name? 

ENVOI 

Prince  of  sweet  songs  made  out  of  tears  and  fire, 
A  harlot  was  thy  nurse,  a  God  thy  sire; 


BALLADES  133 

Shame  soiled  thy  song,  and  song  assoiled  thy  shame. 
But  from  thy  feet  now  death  has  washed  the  mire, 
Love  reads  out  first  at  head  of  all  our  quire, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


ALAS,  FOR  THE  FLEET  WINGS  OF  TIME 
(Ballade  to  Frangois  Villon) 

Where,  prithee,  are  thy  comrades  bold 

With  ruffle  and  with  furbelow, 
\Vho,  in  the  merry  days  of  old, 

Made  light  of  all  but  red  wine's  flow? 

Where  now  are  cavalier  and  beau 
Who  joyed  with  thee  in  that  bright  clime? 

Ah,  dust  to  dust! — and  none  may  know! — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time! 

Where  now  are  they  that  gleaming  gold 

Led  on  to  many  a  bandit  blow. 
Who  roamed  with  thee  the  vine-clad  wold 

And  shadowed  vales,  and  shared  thy  woe? 

Where  they  who  in  the  sunset  glow 
With  thee  heard  Paris'  sweet  bells  chime? 

Ah,  they  are  gone! — and  still  men  go! — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time! 

And  where  are  they,  those  maids  untold, 

Thy  lighter  loves,  each  one  thy  foe? 
No  more  are  they  than  crumbled  mold, 

With  earth  above  and  earth  below; 

And  she  who  won,  aside  to  throw 
Thy  love,  the  promise  of  thy  prime. 

Doth  any  seek  her  name?   ah,  no!— 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Timel 


134  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Singer  of  ballade  and  rondeau, 

Deft  shaper  of  the  dancing  rhyme, 

TAy  name  alone  survives  the  snow; — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time! 

Clinton  Scollard 


VILLON  QUITS  FRANCE 

"Demain  tous  nous  mourrons;  c'est  juste  notre  affaire." 

— Theodore  Passerat. 

We  hang  to-morrow,  then?     That  doom  is  fit 
For  most  of  us,  I  think.     Yet,  harkee,  friend, 
I  have  a  ballad  here  which  1  have  writ 
Of  us  and  our  high  ending.      Pray  you,  send 
The  scrawl  to  Cayeux,  bidding  him  commend 
Frangois  to  grace.     Old  Colin  loves  me  well. 
For  no  good  reason,  save  it  so  befell 
We  two  were  young  together.  .  .  .  When  I  am  hung, 
Colin  will  weep — and  then  will  laugh,  and  tell 
How  many  pranks  we  played  when  we  were  young. 

Dear  lads  of  yesterday!  .  .  .  We  had  no  wit 
To  live  always  so  we  might  not  offend, 
Yet — how  we  laughed!     I  marvel  now  at  it, 
Because   that  merry  company  will  spend 
No  more  mad  nights  together.     Some  are  penned 
In  abbeys,  some  in  dungeons,  others  fell 
In  battle.  .  .  .  Time  assesses  death's  gabelle, — 
Salt  must  be  taxed,  eh? — well,  we  ranked  among 
The  salt  of  earth,  once,  who  are  old  and  tell 
How  many  pranks  we  played  when  we  were  young. 

Afraid  to  die,  you  ask? — Why,  not  a  whit. 
Ah,  no!  whole-heartedly  I  mean  to  wend 
Out  of  a  world  I  have  found  exquisite 
By  every  testing.      For  I  apprehend 
Life  was  not  made  all  lovely  to  the  end 
That  life  ensnare  us,  nor  the  miracle 


BALLADES  135 

Of  youth  devised  but  as  a  trap  to  swell 
Old  Legion's  legions;  and  must  give  full  tongue 
To  praise  no  less  than  prayer,  when  bidden  tell 
How  many  pranks  we  played  when  we  were  young. 

Nay,  cheerily  we  of  the  Cockle-shell, 
And  all  whose  youth  was  nor  to  stay  nor  quell. 
Will  dare  foregather  when  earth's  knell  is  rung, 
And  Calvary's  young  conqueror  bids  us  tell 
How  many  pranks  we  played  when  we  were  young. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


RONSARD  RE-VOICES  A  TRUISM 

"Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille,  et  quand  je  serais  mort." 

— Theodore  Passerat. 

When  you  are  very  old,  and  I  am  gone. 
Not' to  return,  it  may  be  you  will  say — 
Hearing  my  name  and  holding  me  as  one 
Long  dead  to  you, — in  some  half-jesting  way 
Of  speech,  sweet  as  vague  heraldings  of  May 
Rumored  in  woods  when  first  the  throstles  sing: — 
He  loved  me  once.     And  straightway  murmuring 
My  half- forgotten  rhymes,  you  will  regret 
Evanished  times  when  I  was  wont  to  sing 
So  very  lightly.  Love  runs  into  debt. 

I  shall  not  heed  you  then.     My  course  being  run 
For  good  or  ill,  I  shall  have  gone  my  way, 
And  know  you,  love,  no  longer, — nor  the  sun, 
Perchance,  nor  any  light  of  earthly  day. 
Nor  any  joy  nor  sorrow, — while  at  play 
The  world  speeds  merrily,  nor  reckoning 
Our  coming  or  our  going.     Lips  will  cling. 
Forswear,  and  be  forsaken,  and  men  forget 
Where  once  our  tombs  were,  and  our  children  sing- 
So  very  lightly! — Love  runs  into  debt. 


136  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

If  in  the  grave  love  have  dominion 
Will  that  wild  cry  not  quicken  the  wise  clay, 
And  taunt  with  memories  of  fond  deeds  undone — 
Some  joy  untasted,  some  lost  holiday, — 
All  death's  large  wisdom?     Will  that  wisdom  lay 
The  ghost  of  any  sweet  familiar  thing 
Come  haggard  from  the  Past,  or  ever  bring 
Forgetfulness  of  those  two  lovers  met 
When  all  was  April? — nor  too  wise  to  sing 
So  very  lightly,  Loz/e  runs  into  debt. 

Yea,  though  the  years  of  vain  remembering 
Draw  nigh,  and  age  be  drear,  yet  in  the  spring 
We  meet  and  kiss,  whatever  hour  be  set 
Wherein  all  hours  attain  to  harvesting, — 
So  very  lightly  Love  runs  into  debt. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


BALLADE  OF  WOMEN 
(Theodore  de  Banville) 

My  friend,  from  China  to  Peru, 

And  where  the  Baltic  breezes  blow, 
There's  many  a  dainty  Kate  and  Prue, 

Full  worth  thy  wandering  to  and  fro: 

And  Buda  hath,  like  Bergamo, 
Her  nymphs  whose  glance  enchantment  carries 

But  woman — would  you  call  her  so — 
Woman,  my  friend,  is  ware  of  Paris! 

We  of  her  flock  are  tried  and  true. 

With  rose  and  frill  and  flounce  and  bow, 
She's  passing  dainty  to  the  view: 

To  slander  her  is  woe  on  woe: 

For  like  the  poster  of  a  show 
She  lies;  and  ne'er  her  tongue  miscarries 

Once  it  is  set  against  a  foe, 
— ^Woman,  my  friend,  is  ware  of  Paris! 


BALLADES  137 

The  dress  she  wears  hath  fairy  hue, 

The  fare  she  craves  is  light  as  snow, 
The  lore  she  reads  is  strange  and  new, 

The  plays  she  loves  with  passion  glow! 

She  for  whom  lofty  Troy  lay  low 
Loved  fewer  than  mylady  marries, 

For  plainly  would  I  have  you  know 
Woman,  my  friend,  is  ware  of  Paris! 

ENVOI 

Fair  Sir,  from  this  I  may  not  go — 

Behind  the  worth  of  woman  tarries 
The  utmost  praise  of  man:  but,  oh, 

Woman,  my  friend,  is  ware  of  Paris! 

Archibald  T.  Strong 


BALLADE  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

(Theodore  de  Banville) 

Two  lonely  lovers,  young  and  lovely,  stray 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  by  the  river's  flow. 

He  blithe  and  gallant  as  a  summer's  day. 

She,  lingering  still  with  pensive  step  and  slow. 
Albeit  her  eyes  with   tender  radiance  glow. 
The  magic  time  of  song  and  passion  nears, 
Beside  his  lady,   that  with   rapture  hears. 

His  song  up-soaring  from  the  listening  vale. 

Hark!      To  the  stars  he  loves,  his  radiant  peers, 

Deep  in  the  forest  sings  the  nightingale. 

Swift  spells  of  love  her  maiden  spirit  sway, 
Her  lovely  body  thrills  in  passion's  throe, 

She  quivers  as  the  hawthorn's  dancing  spray 
Upon  her  eyes  joy  and  enchantment  grow. 
Her  fairy  hand,  whiter  than  purest  snow. 
An  instant  on  the  moonlit  sward  appears. 


138  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  o'er  the  beck  there  streameth  on  her  ears 
The  shower  of  liquid  song  that  fills  the  vale 

With  fire  and  anguish  of  the  vanished  years — 
Deep  in  the  forest  sings  the  nightingale. 

They  whisper  soft:  the  furtive  airs  at  play 
Pass  on  their  brows  divinely  to  and  fro: 

She  swoons  for  joy  and  fear:  and  'neath  the  may 
Where  slow  and  still  the  drowsy  waters  go 
Fast  in  her  lover's  arms  she  lieth  low. 
Flecked  with  the  sheen  that  through  the  coppice  peers 
And  wooed  of  every  wind  that  shifts  and  veers, 

Shaken,  exultant,  in  the  moonlight  pale. 

His  neck  a-glitter  with  the  evening's  tears. 

Deep  in  the  forest  sings  the  nightingale. 


ENVOI 

His  burst  of  passionate  grief  the  bird  uprears; 

Then,  mazed  with  all.  the  magic  of  the  spheres. 
He  stays  his  song,  and  swift  from  heaven  doth  fail 

The  glory  that  the  soul  of  Love  reveres: 
Deep  in  the  forest  sings  the  nightingale. 

Archibald  T.  Strong 


BALLADE  FOR  THE  LAUREATE 

(After  Theodore  de  Banville) 

Rhyme,  in  a  late  disdainful  age, 

Hath  many  and  many  an  eager  knight, 
Each  man  of  them,  to  print  his  page. 

From  every  quarter  wings  his  flight! 
What  tons  of  manuscript  alight 

Here  in  the  Row,  how  many  a  while 
For  all  can  rhyme,  when  all  can  write — 

The  master's  yonder  in  the  Isle! 


BALLADES  139 

Like  Otus  some,  with  giant  rage, 

But  scarcely  with  a  giant's  might, 
Ossa  on  Pelion  engage 

To  pile,  and  scale  Parnassus'  height! 

And  some,  with  subtle  nets  and  slight, 
Entangle  rhymes  exceeding^  vile,* 

And  wond'rous  adjectives  unite — 
The  master's  yonder  in  the  Isle! 

Alas,  the  Muse  they  cannot  cage 

These  poets  in  a  sorry  plight! 
Vain  is  the  weary  war  they  wage. 

In  vain  they  curse  the  Critic's  spite! 
While-  grammar  some  neglect  outright. 

While  others  polish  with  the  file, 
The  Fates  contrive  their  toil  to  blight — 

The  master's  yonder  in  the  Isle! 

ENVOY 

Prince,  Arnold's  jewel-work  is  bright, 

And  Browning,  in  his  iron  style. 
Doth  gold  on  his  rude  anvil  smite — 

The  master's  yonder  in  the  Isle! 

Andrew  Lang 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MELICERTES 
In  Memory  of  Theodore  de  Banville 

Death,  a  light  outshining  life,  bids  heaven  resume 
Star  by  star  the  souls  whose  light  made  earth  divine. 

Death,  a  night  outshining  day,  sees  burn  and  bloom 
Flower  by  flower,  and  sun  by  sun,  the  fames  that  shine 
Deathless,  higher  than  life  beheld  their  sovereign  sign. 

Dead  Simonides  of  Ceos,  late  restored, 

*  For  example  'dawning'  and  'warning.' 


140  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Given  again  of  God,  again  by  man  deplored, 
Shone  but  yestereve,  a  glory  frail  as  breath. 

Frail?  But  Fame's  breath  quickens,  kindles,  keeps  in  ward, 
Life  so  sweet  as  this  that  dies  and  casts  off  death. 

Mother's  love,  and  rapture  of  the  sea,  whose  womb 
Breeds  eternal  life  of  joy  that  stings  like  brine, 

Pride  of  song,  and  joy  to  dare  the  singer's  doom, 
Sorrow  soft  as  sleep  and  laughter  bright  as  wine, 
Flushed  and  filled  with  fragrant  fire  his  lyric  line. 

As  the  sea-shell  utters,  like  a  stricken  chord. 

Music  uttering  all  the  sea's  within  it  stored. 

Poet  well-beloved,  whose  praise  our  sorrow  saith, 

So  thy  songs  retain  thy  soul,  and  so  record 

Life  so  sweet  as  this  that  dies  and  casts  off  death. 

Side  by  side  we  mourned  at  Gautier's  golden  tomb: 
Here  in  spirit  now  I  stand  and  mourn  at  thine. 

Yet  no  breath  of  death  strikes  thence,  no  shadow  of 
gloom. 
Only  light  more  bright  than  gold  of  the  inmost  mine, 
Only  steam  of  incense  warm  from  love's  own  shrine. 

Not  the  darkling  stream,  the  sundering  Stygian  ford, 

Not  the  hour  that  smites  and  severs  as  a  sword. 
Not  the  night  subduing  light  that  perisheth. 

Smite,  subdue,  divide   from  us  by  doom  abhorred. 
Life  so  sweet  as  this  that  dies  and  casts  off  death. 

Prince  of  song  more  sweet  than  honey,  lyric  lord, 
Not  thy  France  here  only  mourns  a  light  adored. 

One  whose  love-lit  fame  the  world  inheriteth. 
Strangers  too,  now  brethren,  hail  with  heart's  accord 

Life  so  sweet  as  this  that  dies  and  casts  off  death. 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BALLADES  141 

THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE 
BALLADE 

For  the  funeral  of  the  Last  of  the  Joyous  Poets. 

One  ballade  more  before  we  say  good-night, 

O  dying  Muse,  one  mournful  ballade  more! 
Then  let  the  new  men  fall  to  their  delight, 

The  Impressionist,  the  Decadent,  a  score 

Of  other  fresh  fanatics,  who  adore 
Quaint  demons,  and  disdain  thy  golden  shrine; 
Ah!  faded  goddess,  thou  wert  held  divine 

When  we  were  young!  But  now  each  laurelled  head 
Has  fallen,  and  fallen  the  ancient  glorious  line; 

The  last  is  gone,  since  Banville  too  is  dead. 

Peace,  peace  a  moment,  dolorous  Ibsenite! 

Pale  Tolstoist,  moaning  from  the  Euxine  shore! 
Psychology,  to  dreamland  take  thy  flight! 

And,  fell  Heredity,  forbear  to  pour 

Drop  after  drop  thy  dose  of  hellebore, 
For  we  look  back  to-night  to  ruddier  wine 
And  gayer  singing  than  these  moans  of  thine! 

Our  skies  were  azure  once,  our  roses  red. 
Our  poets  once  were  crowned  with  eglantine; 

The  last  is  gone,  since  Banville  too  is  dead. 

With  flutes  and  lyres  and  many  a  lovely  rite 

Through  the  mad  woodland  of  our  youth  they  bore 

Verse,  like  pure  ichor  in  a  chrysolite, 

Secret  yet  splendid,  and  the  world  forswore. 
For  one  brief  space,  the  mocking  mask  it  wore. 

Then  failed,  then  fell  those  children  of  the  vine,— 

Sons  of  the  sun, — and  sank  in  slow  decline; 

Pulse  after  pulse  their  radiant  lives  were  shed; 

To  silence  we  their  vocal  names  consign; 
The  last  is  gone,  since  Banville  too  is  dead. 


142  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOI 

Prince-jeweller,  whose  facet-rhymes  combine 
All  hues  that  glow,  all  rays  that  shift  and  shine, 

Farewell!  thy  song  is  sung,  thy  splendour  fled. 
No  bards  to  Aganippe's  wave  incline; 

The  last  is  gone,  since  Banville  too  is  dead. 

Edmund  Gosse 


BALLADE  DES  ENFANTS  SANS  SOUCI 

(From  Albert  Glatigny) 

These  children,  oftener  barefoot  wayfaring, 

For  winter  gloves  wear  a  numb  finger-ache, 

Sup  on  a  draught  of  air  at  evening, 

And  on  their  brows  the  ragged  north  winds  rake 

Loud-chiding,  as  when  armies  onset  make. 

But  little  better  can   it  them  befall 

When  flying  April  the  dry  earth  shall  slake. 

— They  take  no  thought.      Your  pity  on  them  all! 

When  at  the  starry  hollow's  quivering 
Their  clear  eyes  dance  and  lighten  like  «  lake, 
They  have  no  more  than  a  worm's  covering. 
Onward  and  outward  where  the  sheer  hills  break. 
On  down  the  vale!      But  all  men  answer  make — 
"You  little  birds,  one  further  flight  must  take!" 
— They  take  no  thought.      Your  pity  on  them  all! 

Such  death  of  cold  must  their  poor  bodies  wring! 
Their  blood  is  iced  and  curdled  to  a  cake. 
All  hearts  shut  to  them  with  an  iron  spring, 
And  unsepiilchered  lie  they  in  the  brake, 
Or  meadow,  where  they  moulder  till  they  wake. 
To  that  stark  supper  then  the  crows  will   fall; 
Snow-showers  shall  wash  them,  falling  flake  by  flake. 
— They  take  no  thought.     Your  pity  on  them  all! 


BALLADES  f43 


ENVOY 


This  life  is  one  long  web  of  bale  and  ache. 
Only  £  'thank  you'  canst  thou  hear  them  call, 
O  outcast  song,  made  outcast  for  their  sake! 
— They  take  no  thought.     Your  pity  on  them  all! 

O.  Elion 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  CITIES 
To  A.  L. 

Where  are  the  cities  of  the  plain? 

And  where  the  shrines  of  rapt  Bethel? 
And  Calah  built  of  Tubal-Cain? 

And  Shinar  whence  King  Amraphel 

Came  out  in  arms,  and  fought,  and  fell, 
Decoyed  into  the  pits  of  slime 

By  Siddim,  and  sent  sheer  to  hell; 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

Where  now  is  Karnak,  that  great  fane 

With  granite  built,  a  miracle? 
And   Luxor  smooth  without  a  stain, 

Whose  graven  scriptures  still  we  spell? 

The  jackal  and  the  owl  may  tell, 
Dark  snakes  around  their  ruins  climb, 

They  fade  like  echo  in   a  shell; 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

And  where  is  white  Shushan,  again, 
Where  Vashti's  beauty  bore  the  bell. 

And  all  the  Jewish  oil  and  grain 
Were  brought  to  Mithridath  to  sell. 
Where  Nehemiah  would  not  dwell. 

Because  another  town  sublime 
Decoyed  him  with  her  oracle? 

Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 


144  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOI 

Prince,  with  a  dolorous,  ceaseless  knell, 
Above  their  wasted  toil  and  crime 

The  waters  of  oblivion  swell; 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

Edmund  Gosse 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  CITIES  * 

To  E.  W.  Gosse 

The  dust  of  Carthage  and  the  dust 
Of  Babel  on  the  desert  wold, 
The  loves  of  Corinth,  and  the  lust, 
Orchomenos    increased   with    gold; 
The  town  of  Jason,  over-bold. 
And  Cherson,   smitten   in  her  prime — 
What  are  they  but  a  dream  half-told? 
Where   are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

In  towns  that  were  a  kingdom's  trust, 
In  dim  Atlantic  forests'  fold, 
The  marble  wasteth  to  a  crust. 
The  granite   crumbles  into  mould; 
O'er  these — left  nameless  from  of  old — 
As  over  Shinar's  brick  and  slime, 
One  vast  forgetfulness  is  roU'd — 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

The  lapse  of  ages,  and  the  rust. 
The  fire,  the  frost,  the  waters  cold. 
Efface  the  evil  and  the  just; 
From  Thebes,  that  Eriphyle  sold, 

*  From   Ballades  and  Verses  Vain  by  Andrew  Lang'.     Copy- 
right  1884  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


BALLADES  145 

To  drown'd  Caer-Is,  whose  sweet  bells  toll'd 
Beneath  the  wave  a  dreamy  chime 
That  echo'd  from  the  mountain-hold, — 
"Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time?" 

ENVOI 

Prince,  all  thy  towns  and  cities  must 
Decay  as  these,  till  all  their  crime, 
And  mirth,  and  wealth,  and  toil  are  thrust 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time. 

Andrew   Lang 


WHERE  ARE  THE  SHIPS  OF  TYRE? 

Hark,  how  the  surges  dash 

On   Tyrian   beaches  hoar! 
With    far-resounding    crash. 

And   unremitting  roar. 

The  white  foam-squadrons  pour 
Their   ranks  with   sullen    ire 

Along  the  sandy  floor; 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tyre?" 

Within   her  walls  the   clash 

Of  arms  is  heard  no  more; 
No  supple  bough  of  ash 

Is  hewn   for  mast  or  oar; 

Through  no  tall  temple's  door 
Now  gleams  the  altar  fire. 

But  winds  and  waves   deplore, 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tyre?" 

By  night  no  torches  flash 
From   porches   as  of  yore; 

'Neath  sword  or  stinging  lash 
No  slave  now  lies  in  gore; 


146  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

No   voice   that  men   adore 
Lifts  song  to  lute  or  lyre; 

With  all  the  freight  they  bore 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tyre?" 


ENVOY 

Prince,  with  those  "gone  before," 
We,  whom  these  days  inspire, 

Must  seek  that  unknown  shore 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tyre." 
Clinton  Scollard 


DEAD  POETS 

Where  be  they  that  once  would  sing, 
Poets   passed    from   wood   and   dale? 

Faintly,  now,  we  touch  the  string. 
Faithless,  now,  we  seek  the  Grail: 
Shakspeare,  Spenser,   nought  avail, 

Herrick,  England's  Oberon, 

Sidney,  smitten  through  his  mail. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone! 

Ronsard's  Roses  blossoming 

Long  are  faded,  long  are  frail; 
Gathered  to  the  heart  of  Spring 

He  that  sang  the  breezy  flail. 

Ah!  could  prayer  at  all  prevail. 
These  should  shine  where  once  they  shone. 

These  should  'scape  the  shadowy  pale — 
Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone! 

What  clear  air  knows  Dante's  wing? 

What  new  seas  doth   Homer  sail? 
By  what  waters  wandering 

Tells  Theocritus  his  tale? 


BALLADES  147 

Still,  when  cries  the  Nightingale, 
Singing,  sobbing,  on  and  on, 

Her  brown  feathers  seem  to  veil 
Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone! 

Charon,  when  my  ghost  doth  hail 

O'er  Cocytus'  waters  wan. 
Land  me  where  no  storms  assail 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


A  BALLAD  OF  APPEAL 

To  Christina  G.  Rossetti 

Song  wakes  with  every  wakening  year 
From  hearts  of  birds  that  only  feel 

Brief   spring's  deciduous  flower-time   near: 
And  song  more  strong  to  help  or  heal 
Shall    silence   worse   than   winter   seal? 

From  love-iit  thought's  remurmuring  cave 

The  notes  that  rippled,  wave  on  wave. 
Were  clear  as  love,  as  faith  were  strong; 

And  all  souls  blessed  the  soul  that  gave 
Sweet  water  from  the  well  of  song. 

All  hearts  bore  fruit  of  joy  to  hear, 
All  eyes  felt  mist  upon  them  steal 

For  joy's  sake,  trembling  toward  a  tear, 
When,  loud  as  marriage-bells  that  peal, 
Or  flutelike  soft,  or  keen  like  steel, 

Sprang   the   sheer  music;    sharp  or   grave. 

We  heard  the  drift  of  winds  that  drave. 

And  saw,  swept  round  by  ghosts  in  throng, 

Dark  rocks,  that  yielded,  where  they  clave, 
Sweet  water   from   the  well  of  song. 


148  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Blithe  verse  made  all  the  dim  sense  clear 
That  smiles  of  babbling  babes  conceal: 

Prayer's  perfect  heart  spake  here:  and  here 
Rose  notes  of  blameless  woe  and  weal, 
More  soft  than  this  poor  song's  appeal. 

Where  orchards  bask,  where  cornfields  wave, 

They  dropped  like  rains  that  cleanse  and  lave, 
And  scattered  all  the  year  along, 

Like  dewfall  on  an  April  grave. 

Sweet  water  from  the  well  of  song. 

Ballad,  go  bear  our  prayer,  and  crave 
Pardon,   because   thy  lowlier  stave 

Can   do  this  plea  no  right,  but  wrong. 
Ask  nought  beside  thy  pardon,  save 

Sweet  water   from   the  well  of  song. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


HEARTSEASE   COUNTRY 

To   Isabel  Swinburne 

The  far  green  westward  heavens  are  bland, 
The  far  green  Wiltshire  downs  are  clear 

As  these   deep  meadows  hard  at  hand; 
The  sight  knows  hardly  far  from  near. 
Nor  morning  joy   from  evening  cheer. 

In  cottage  garden-plots  their  bees 

Find  many  a  fervent  flower  to  seize 
And  strain   and  drain   the  heart  away 

From   ripe   sweet-williams  and   sweet-peas 
At  every  turn  on  every  way. 

But  gladliest  seems  one  flower  to  expand 
Its  whole  sweet  heart  all  round  us  here; 

'Tis    Heartsease    Country,    Pansy    Land. 
Nor  sounds  nor  savors  harsh  and  drear 
Where  engines  yell  and  halt  and  veer 

Can  vex  the  sense  of  him  who  sees 


BALLADES  1+9 

One  flower-plot  midway,  that  for  trees 
Has  poles,  and  sheds  all  grimed  or  gray 

For  bowers  like  those  that  take  the  breeze 
At  every  turn  on  every  way. 

Content  even  there  they  smile  and  stand, 

Sweet  thought's  heart-easing  flowers,  nor  fear, 
With  reek  and  roaring  steam  though  fanned, 

Nor  shrink  nor  perish  as  they  peer. 

The  heart's  eye  holds  not  those  more  dear 
That  glow  between  the  lanes  and  leas 
Where'er  the  homeliest  hand  may  please 

To  bid  them  blossom  as  they  may 
Where  light  approves  and  wind  agrees 

At  every  turn  on  every  way. 

Sister,  the  word  of  winds  and  seas 
Endures  not  as  the  word  of  these 

Your  wayside  flowers  whose  breath  would  say 
How  hearts  that  love  may  find  heart's  ease 

At  every  turn  on  every  way. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  ACTORS 

To  E.  J.  H. 

Where  are  the  passions  they  essayed, 
And  where  the  tears  they  made  to  flow? 
Where  the  wild  humours  they  portrayed 
For  kughing  worlds  to  see  and  know? 
Othello's  wrath  and  Juliet's  woe? 
Sir  Peter's  whims  and  Timon's  gall? 
And  Millamant  and  Romeo? 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 

Where  are  the  braveries,  fresh  or  frayed? 
The  plumes,  the  armours — friend  and  foe? 
The  cloth  of  gold,  the  rare  brocade. 
The  mantles  glittering  to  and  fro? 


.150  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  pomp,  the  pride,  the  royal  show? 
The  cries  of  war  and  festival? 
The  youth,  the  grace,  the  charm,  the  glow? 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 

The  curtain  falls,  the  play  is  played: 
The  Beggar  packs  beside  the  Beau; 
The  Monarch  troops,  and  troops  the  Maid; 
The  Thunder  huddles  with  the  Snow. 
Where  are  the  revellers  high  and  low? 
The  clashing  swords?      The  lover's  call? 
The  dancers  gleaming  row  on  row? 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  in  one  common  overthrow 
The  Hero  tumbles  with  the  Thrall: 
As  dust  that  drives,  as  straws  that  blow. 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 

W.  E.  Henley 


A  BALLADE  OF  KINGS 

Where  are  the  mighty  kings  of  yore 

Whose  sword-arm  cleft  the  world  in  twain? 
And  where  are  they  who  won  and  wore 

The  empire  of  the  land  and  main? 

Where's  Alexander,  Charlemain? 
Alone  the  sky  above  them  brings 

Their  tombs  the  tribute  of  the  rain. 
Dust  in  dust  are  the  bones  of  kings! 

Where  now  is  Rome's  old  emperor, 

Who  gazed  on   burning  Rome   full  fain; 
And  where,  at  one   for  evermore, 

The  Liege  of  France,  the  Lord  of  Spain? 

What  of  Napoleon's  lightning  brain. 
Grim  Fritz's  iron  hammerings, 

Forging  the  links  of  Europe's  chain? 
Dust  in  dust  are  the  bones  of  kings! 


BALLADES  151 

Where,  'neath  what  ravenous  curses  sore. 

Hath  Well-Loved  Louis  lapsed  and  lain? 
Where  is  the  Lion-Heart,  who  bore 

The  spears  toward  Zion's  gate  again? 

And  can  so  little  space  contain. 
Quiet  from  all  his  wanderings, 

The  world-demanding  Tamburlaine? 
Dust  in  dust  are  the  bones  of  kings! 

ENVOY 

O  Kings,  bethink  ye  then  how  vain 

The  pride  and  pomp  of  earthly  things: 

A  little  pain,  a  little  gain. 

Then  dust  in  dust  are  the  bones  of  kings. 

Arthur  Symom 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  POETS 

Theocritus,   who   bore 

The  lyre  where  sleek  herds  graze 
On  the  Sicilian  shore, 

(There  yet  the  shepherd  strays) — 

And  Horace,  crowned  with  bays. 
Who  dwelt  by  Tiber's  flow, 

Sleep  through  the  silent  days — 
For  God  will  have  it  so! 

The  bard,  whose  requiem  o'er 

And  o'er  the  sad  sea  plays. 
Who   sang  of  classic   lore, 

Of  Mab,  the  queen  of  fays— 

And  Keats,  fair  Adonais, 
The  child  of  song  and  woe, 

No  longer  thread  life's  maze— 
For  God  will  have  it  so! 

Your  voices,  sweet  of  yore, 

With  honied  word  and  phrase. 

Are  heard  by  men  no  more. 
They  list  to  other  lays — 


152  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

New  poets  now  have  praise, 
But  all  in  turn  must  go 

To  follow  in  your  ways — 
For  God  will  have  it  so! 

ENVOY 

Poets,  the  thrones  ye  raise 
Are   not  a  "fleeting  show;" 

Fame  lives,  though  dust  decays — 
For  God  will  have  it  so! 

Clinton  Scollard 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  PLAYS  * 

To  Brander  Matthews 

(Les  CEuvres  de  Monsieur  Moliere.     A  Paris,  chez  Louys 
Billaine,  a  la  Palme.     M.  D.  C.  LXVI) 

LA    COUR 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new,  the  King, 

Beside  the  Cardinal's  chair, 

Applauded,  'mid  the  courtly  ring. 

The  verses  of  Moliere; 

Point-lace  was  then  the  only  wear. 

Old  Corneille  came  to  woo, 

And  bright  Du  Pare  was  young  and  fair, 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new! 

LA    COMEDIE 

How  shrill  the  butcher's  cat-calls  ring. 
How  loud  the  lackeys  swear! 
Black  pipe-bowls  on  the  stage  they  fling, 
At   Brecourt,   fuming  there! 

*  From   Ballades  and  Verses   Vain  by  Andrew  Lang'.     Copy- 
right  18  84  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


BALLADES  153 


The  Porter's  stabbed!  a  Mousquetaire 
Breaks  in  with  noisy  crew — 
'Twas  all  a  commonplace  affair 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new! 


LA    VILLE 


When  these  Old  Plays  were  new!      They  bring 

A  host  of  phantoms  rare: 

Old  jests  that  float,  old  jibes  that  sting, 

Old  faces  peaked  with  care: 

Menage's  smirk,-  de  Vise's  stare. 

The  thefts  of  Jean  Ribou, —  * 

Ah,  publishers  were  hard  to  bear 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new. 

ENVOY 

Ghosts,  at  your  Poet's  word  ye  dare 
To  break  Death's  dungeons  through, 
And  frisk,  as  in  that  golden  air, 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new! 

Andrew  Lang 

ON  A  FAN  THAT  BELONGED  TO  THE 
MARQUISE  DE  POMPADOUR 

Chicken-skin,  delicate,  white. 

Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 

Roses  and  vaporous  blue; 

Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou! 
Picture  above  if  you  can, 

Eyes  that  could  melt  as  the  dew, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan! 

See  how  they  rise  at  the  sight. 

Thronging  the  CEil  de  Bceuf  through, 

Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 
Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 

*  A  knavish  publisher. 


154  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 
Cardinal,  Duke, — to  a  man, 

Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan! 

Ah!  but  things  more  than  polite 

Hung  on  this  toy,  voyez-vous! 
Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 

Things  that  great  ministers  do; 

Things  that,  maybe,  overthrew 
Those  in  whose  brains  they  began; 

Here  was  the  sign  and  the  cue, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan! 

ENVOY 

Where  are  the  secrets  it  knew? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan? 
-^But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too? 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  F^«/ 

Austin  Dob  son 

BALLADE  OF  ANTIQUE  DANCES 

Before  the  town  had  lost  its  wits, 

And  scared  the  bravery  from  its  beaux. 

When  money-grubs  were  merely  cits. 
And  verse  was  crisp  and  clear  as  prose, 
Ere  Chloe  and  Strephon  came  to  blows 

For  votes,  degrees,  and  cigarettes, 
The  world  rejoiced  to  point  its  toes 

In  Gigues,  Gavottes,  and  Minuets, 

The  solemn  fiddlero  touch  their  kits; 

The  twinkling  clavichord  o'erflows 
With  contrapuntal  quirks  and  hits; 

And,  with  all  measure  and  repose. 

Through  figures  grave  as  royal  shows. 
With  noble  airs  and  pirouettes. 

They  move,  to  rhythms  Handel  knows, 
In  Gigues,  Gavottes,  and  Minuets. 


BALLADES  155 

0  Fans  and  Swords,  O  Sacques  and  Mits, 
That  was  the  better  part  you  chose! 

You  know  not  how  those  gamesome  chits 
Waltz,  Polka,  and  Schottische  arose, 
Or  how  Quadrille — a  kind  of  doze 

In  time  and  tune — the  dance  besets; 
You  aired  your  fashion  till  the  close 

In  Gigues,  Gavottes,  and  Minuets. 

ENVOY 

Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  hose, 
Terpsichore,  O  teach  your  pets 

The  charm  that  shines,  the  grace  that  glows 
In  Gigues,  Gavottes,  and  Minuets. 

W.  E.  Henley 

BALLADE  OF  A  TOYOKUNI  COLOUR  PRINT 

To  W.  A. 

Was  I  a  Samurai  renowned, 
Two-sworded,  fierce,  immense  of  bow? 
A  histrion  angular  and  profound? 
A  priest?   a  porter? — Child,  although 

1  have  forgotten  clean,  I  know 
That  in  the  shade  of  Fujisan, 
What  time  the  cherry-orchards  blow, 
I  loved  you  once  in  old  Japan. 

As  here  you  loiter,  flowing-gowned 

And  hugely  sashed,  with  pins  a-row 

Your  quaint  head  as  with  flamelets  crowned, 

Demure,   inviting — even   so. 

When  merry  maids  in  Miyako 

To  feel  the  sweet  o'  the  year  began. 

And  green  gardens  to  overflow, 

1  loved  you  once  in  old  Japan. 

Clear  shine  the  hills;  the  rice-fields  round 
Two  cranes  are  circling;  sleepy  and  slow, 
A  blue  canal  the  lake's  blue  bound 
Breaks  at  the  bamboo  bridge;  and  lo! 


156  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Touched  with  the  sundown's  spirit  and  glow, 
I  see  you  turn,  with  flirted  fan, 
Against  the  plum-tree's  bloomy  snow  ..  .  . 
I  loved  you  once  in  old  Japan! 

ENVOY 

Dear,   'twas  a   dozen   lives  ago; 
But  that  I  was  a  lucky  man 
The  Toyokuni  here  will   show: 
I  loved  you — once — in  old  Japan. 

W.  E.  Henley 


BALLADE  OF  THE  UNCHANGING  BEAUTY 

On  every  wind  there  comes  the  dolorous  cry 

Of  change,  and  rumour  vast  of  fair  things  sped, 

And  old  perfections  loudly  doomed  to  die; 
Axes  agleam  and  running  torches  red, 
And  voices  shrilling,  "The  old  world  is  dead!" 

Yet  little  heed  to  all  this  noise  I  pay, 

But  lift  my  eyes  where,  walking  overhead, 

The  moon  goes  silently  upon  her  way. 

For  what  concern  with  all  this  change  have  I, 

Knowing  the  same  wild  words  of  old  were  said? 
For  change,  too,  changes  not;  yea,  this  old  sky 

Watches  mankind  the  same  vain  pathway  tread. 

So  long  ago  thrones  crashed,  and  nations  bled. 
Yet  the  old  world  stole  back  at  close  of  day, 

And  on  the  morrow  men  rose  up  to  wed — 
The  moon  goes  silently  upon  her  way. 

Abbess  of  all  yon  cloistered  worlds  on  highy 

Upon  my  heart  your  benediction  shed. 
Help  me  to  put  the  idle  turmoil  by. 

And  on  the  changeless  be  my  spirit  fed; 

O  be  my  footsteps  on  that  pathway  led 
Where  Beauty  steals  among  the  stars  to  pray; 

And,  sorrowing  earth,  in  this  be  comforted — 
The  moon  goes  silently  upon  her  way. 


BALLADES  157 


ENVOI 


Prince,  toss  not  too  uneasy  on  your  bed, 
Fearing  your  little  crown  be  reft  away; 

Wear  this  undying  wreath  I  weave  instead — 
The  moon  goes  silently  upon  her  way. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


BALLADE   OF  THE   SONG   OF  THE   SEA-WIND* 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye? 

When  abroad  it  stretcheth  its  mighty  wings 
And  driveth  the  white  clouds  far  away, — 
What  is  the  song  it  sings  to-day? 

From  fife  and  tumult  the  white  world  came^ 
W here  all  was  a  mist  of  driven  sfray 
And  the  whirling  fragments  of  a  frame! 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye? 

It  seems  to  breathe  a  thousand  things 

Ere  the  world  grew  sad  and  old  and  grey — 
Of  the  dear  gods  banished  far  astray — 

Of  strange  wild  rumours  of  joy  and  shame! 
The  Earth  is  old^  so  old,  To-day — 
Blind  and  halt  and  weary  and  lame. 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye? 

Like  a  trumpet  blast  its  voice  out-rings, 
The  world  spins  down  the  darksome  way! 
It  crieth  aloud  in   dark  dismay, 

The  Earth  that  from,  fire  and  tumult  came 
Draws  swift  to  her  weary  end  To-day, 
Her  fres  are  fusing  for  that  last  Flarnel 

*  This   poem    belongs   in    the    division    in    which   Adaptations 
are  included. 


158  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOY 


What  singeth  the  sea-wind  thus  for  aye — 

From  fire  and  tumult  the  white  world  camel 

What  is  the  sea-wind's  cry  To-day — 
Her  central  fires  make  one  vast  fiamel 

William  Sharf 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SEA-FOLK 

Where  are  the  creatures  of  the  deep, 

That   made   the    sea- world   wondrous   fair? 

The   dolphins   that  with   royal   sweep 
Sped  Venus  of  the  golden  hair 
Through   leagues  of   summer   sea   and   air? 

Are  they  all  gone  where  past  things  be? 
The  merman   in  his  weedy  lair? 
O  sweet  wild  creatures  of  the  sea! 

O  singing  syrens,  do  ye  weep 
That  now  ye  hear  not  anywhere 

The  swift  oars  of  the  seamen   leap. 
See  their  wild,  eager  eyes  a-stare? 
O  syrens,  that  no  more  ensnare 

The  souls  of  men  that  once  were  free, 
Are  ye  not  filled  with  cold  despair — 
O  sweet  wild  creatures  of  the  sea! 

O  Triton,  on  some  coral  steep 

In  green-gloom  depths,  dost  thou   forbear 
With  wreathed  horn  to  call  thy  sheep, 

The  wandering  sea-waves,  to  thy  care? 

O  mermaids,  once  so  debonnair. 
Sport  ye  no  more  with  mirthful  glee? 

The  ways  of  lover-folk  forswear?  — 

O  sweet  wild  creatures  of  the  sea! 


BALLADES  iS9 

ENVOY 

Deep  down  'mid  coral  caves,  beware! 

They  wait  a  day  that  yet  must  be, 
When  Ocean  shall  be  earth's  sole  heir — 

O  sweet  wild  creatures  of  the  sea! 

William  Sharf 

A  BALLAD  OF  SARK 

High  beyond  the  granite  portal  arched  across, 
Like  the  gateway  of  some  godlike  giant's  hold 

Sweep  and  swell  the  billowy  breasts  of  moor  and  moss 
East  and  westward,  and  the  dell  their  slopes  enfold 
Basks  in  purple,  glows  in  green,  exults  in  gold. 

Glens  that  know  the  dove  and  fells  that  hear  the  lark 

Fill  with  joy  the  rapturous  island,  as  an  ark 

Full  of  spicery  wrought  from  herb  and  flower  and  tree, 

None  would  dream  that  grief  even  here  may  disembark 
On  the  wrathful  woful  marge  of  earth  and  sea. 

Rocks  emblazoned  like  the  mid  shield's  royal  boss 
Take  the  sun  with  all  their  blossom  broad  and  bold. 

None  would  dream  that  all  this  moorland's  glow  and  gloss 
Could  be  dark  as  tombs  that  strike  the  spirit  acold. 
Even  in  eyes  that  opened  here,  and  here  behold 

Now  no  sun  relume  from  hope's  belated  spark. 

Any  comfort,  nor  may  ears  of  mourners  hark 

Though  the  ripe  woods  ring  with  golden-throated  glee, 

While  the  soul  lies  shattered,  like  a  stranded  bark 
On  the  wrathful  woful  marge  of  earth  and  sea. 

Death  and  doom  are  they  whose  crested  triumphs  toss 
On  the  proud  plumed  waves  whence  mourning  notes 
are  tolled. 

Wail  of  perfect  woe  and  moan  for  utter  loss 

Raise  the  bride-song  through  the  graveyard  on  the  wold 
Where  the  bride-bed  keeps  the  bridegroom  fast  in  mould, 

Where  the  bride,  with  death  for  priest  and  doom  for  clerk. 


160  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Hears  for  choir  the  throats  of  waves  like  wolves  that  bark, 
Sore  anhungered,  off  the  drear  Eperquerie, 

Fain  to  spoil  the  strongholds  of  the  strength  of  Sark 
On  the  wrathful  woful  marge  of  earth  and  sea. 

Prince  of  storm  and  tempest,  lord  whose  ways  are  dark, 
Wind  whose  wings  are  spread  for  flight  that  none  may  mark. 

Lightly  dies  the  joy  that  lives  by  grace  of  thee. 
Love  through  thee  lies  bleeding,  hope  lies  cold  and  stark. 

On  the  wrathful  woful  marge  of  earth  and  sea. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


IN  THE  WATER 

The  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the  song  of  the  joy  of 

her  waking  is  rolled 
From  afar  to  the  star  that  recedes  from  anear  to  the  wastes 

of  the  wild  wide  shore. 
Her  call  is  a  trumpet  compelling  us  homeward:  if  dawn  in 

her  east  be  acold. 
From   the  sea  shall  we  crave  not  her  grace  to  rekindle  the 

life  that  it  kindled  before 
Her  breath  to  requicken,  her  bosom  to  rock  us,  her  kisses  to 

bless  as  of  yore? 
For  the  wind,  with  his  wings  half  open,  at  pause  in  the  sky, 

neither  fettered  nor  free. 
Leans  waveward  and  flutters  the  ripple  of  laughter;  and  fain 

would  the  twain  of  us  be 
Where  lightly  the  wave  yearns  forward  from  under  the  curve 

of  the  deep  dawn's  dome. 
And  full  of  the  morning  and  fired  with  the  pride  of  the 

glory  thereof  and  the  glee. 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in  us  bids  and  beseeches, 

athirst  for  the  foam. 

Life  holds  not  an  hour  that  is  better  to  live  in:  the  past  is 

a  tale  that  is  told. 
The    future   a   sun-flecked  shadow,   alive  and  asleep,  with  a 

blessing  in  store. 


BALLADES  161 

As  we  give  us  again  to  the  waters,  the  rapture  of  limbs  that 

the  waters  enfold 
Is  less  than  the  rapture  of  spirit  whereby,  though  the  burden 

it  quits  were  sore, 
Our  souls  and  the  bodies  they  wield  at  their  will  are  absorbed 

in  the  life  they  adore — 
In  the  life  that  endures  no  burden,  and  bows  not  the  fore- 
head, and  bends  not  the  knee — 
In  the  life  everlasting  of  earth  and  of  heaven,  in  the  laws 

that  atone  and  agree, 
In  the  measureless  music  of  things,  in  the  fervor  of  forces 

that  rest  or  that  roam. 
That  cross  and  return  and  reissue,  as  I  after  you  and  as  you 

after  me 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in  us  bids  and  beseeches, 

athirst  for  the  foam. 

For,  albeit  he  were  less  than  the  least  of  them,  haply  the 

heart  of  a  man  may  be  bold 
To  rejoice  in  the  word  of  the  sea  as  a  mother's  that  saith  to 

the  son  she  bore, 
Child,   was   not    the    life    in    thee   mine,   and   my   spirit   the 

breath  in  thy  lips  from  of  old? 
Have  I  let  not  thy  weakness  exult  in  my  strength,  and  thy 

foolishness  learn  of  my  lore? 
Have  I  helped  not  or  healed  not  thy  anguish,  or  made  not 

the  might  of  thy  gladness  more? 
And  surely  his  heart  should  answer.  The  light  of  the  love  of 

my  life  is  in  thee. 
She  is  fairer  than  earth,  and  the  sun  is  not  fairer,  the  wind 

is  not  blither  than  she: 
From  my  youth  hath  she  shown  me  the  joy  of  her  bays  that 

I  crossed,  of  her  cliffs  that  I  clomb. 
Till  now  that  the  twain  of  us  here,  in  desire  of  the  dawn 

and  in  trust  of  the  sea. 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in  us  bids  and  beseeches, 

athirst  for  the  foam. 


162  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOY 

Friend,   earth    is   a   harbor   of   refuge    for   winter,   a   covert 

whereunder  to  flee 
When   day  is  the  vassal  of  night,   and  the  strength  of  the 

hosts  of  her  mightier  than  he; 
But  here  is  the  presence  adored  of  me,  here  my  desire  is  at 

rest  and  at  home. 
There  are  cliffs  to  be  climbed  upon  land,  there  are  ways  to 

be  trodden  and  ridden:  but  we 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in  us  bids  and  beseeches, 

athirst  for  the  foam. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


A  BALLAD  AT  PARTING 

Sea  to  sea  that  clasps  and  fosters  England,  uttering  evermore 
Song  eterne  and  praise  immortal  of  the  indomitable  shore, 
Lifts  aloud  her  constant  heart  up,  south  to  north  and  east 
to  west, 
Here    in    speech    that    shames   all    music,    there    in    thunder- 
throated  roar. 
Chiming  concord  out  of  discord,  waking  rapture  out  of  rest. 
All  her  ways  are  lovely,  all  her  works  and  symbols  are  divine, 
Yet  shall  man  love  best  what  first  bade  leap  his  heart  and 
bend  his  knee; 
Yet  where  first  his  whole  soul  worshipped  shall  his  soul  set 
up  her  shrine: 
Nor  may  love  not  know  the  lovelier,  fair  as  both  beheld 

may  be. 
Here   the    limitless   north-eastern,   there   the   strait   south- 
western sea. 

Though  their  chant  bear  all  one  burden,  as  ere  man  was  born 

it   bore; 
Though  the  burden  be  diviner  than  the  songs  all  souls  adore; 
Yet  may  love  not  choose  but  choose  between  them  which 

to  love  the  best. 


BALLADES  163 

Me  the  sea  my  nursing-mother,  me  the  Channel  green  and 
hoar, 
Holds  at  heart  more  fast  than  all  things,  bares  for  me  the 
goodlier  breast, 
Lifts  for  me  the  lordlier  love-song,  bids  for  me  more  sunlight 
shine. 
Sounds  for  me  the  stormier  trumpet  of  the  sweeter  strain 
to  me. 
So  the  broad  pale  Thames  is  loved  not  like  the  tawny  springs 
of  Tyne: 
Choice   is  clear  between   them  for  the  soul  whose  vision 

holds  in  fee 
Here   the   limitless   north-eastern,    there   the   strait   south- 
western sea. 

Choice   is  clear,   but   dear   is  either;   nor  has   either  not   in 

store 
Many  a  likeness,  many  a  written  sign  of  spirit-searching  lore, 
Whence   the  soul   takes   fire  of  sweet   remembrance,  mag- 
nified and  blest. 
Thought  of   songs  whose   flame-winged    feet   have   trod   the 
un footed  water-floor. 
When  the  lord  of  all  the  living  lords  of  souls  bade  speed 
their  quest; 
Soft    live    sound    like    children's   babble    down    the    rippling 
sand's  incline. 
Or  the  lovely  song  that  loves  them,  hailed  with  thankful 
prayer  and  plea; 
These  are  parcels  of  the  harvest  here  whose  gathered  sheaves 
are  mine, 
Garnered   now,   but   sown   and   reaped  where   winds  make 

wild  with  wrath  or  glee 
Here    the    limitless   north-eastern,    there    the    strait   south- 
western sea. 


Song,  thy  name  is  freedom,  seeing  thy  strength  was  born  of 
breeze  and  brine. 
Fare  now  forth  and  fear  no  fortune:  such  a  seal  is  set  on 
thee. 


164-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Joy  begat  and  memory  bare  thee,  seeing  in  spirit  a  twofold 
sign, 
Even  the  sign  of  those  thy  fosters,  each  as  thou  from  all 

time  free. 
Here    the    limitless   north-eastern,    there    the    strait    south- 
western sea. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


A  BALLAD  TO  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 
oj  the  Sfanish  Armada 

King  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims; 

He  had  sworn  for  a  year  he  would  sack  us; 
With  an  army  of  heathenish  names 

He  was  coming  to  fagot  and  stack  us; 

Like  the  thieves  of  the  sea  he  would  track  us, 
And  shatter  our  ships  on  the  main; 

But  we  had  bold  Neptune  to  back  us, — 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

His  carackes  were  christened  of  dames 

To  the  kirtles  whereof  he  would  tack  us; 
With  his  saints  and  his  gilded  stern-frames. 

He  had  thought  like  an  egg-shell  to  crack  us; 

Now  Howard  may  get  to  his  Flaccus, 
And  Drake  to  his  Devon  again, 

And  Hawkins  bowl  rubbers  to  Bacchus, — 
For  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

Let  his  Majesty  hang  to  St.  James 

The  axe  that  he  whetted  to  hack  us; 
He  must  play  at  some  lustier  games 

Or  at  sea  he  can  hope  to  out-thwack  us; 

To  his  mines  of  Peru  he  would  pack  us 
To  tug  at  his  bullet  and  chain; 

Alas!  that  his  Greatness  should  lack  us! — 
But  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 


BALLADES  165 


ENVOY 

GLORIANA! — the  don  may  attack  us 
Whenever  his  stomach  be  fain; 

He  must  reach  us  before  he  can  rack  us,  .  .  . 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

Austin  Dob  son 


"O  NAVIS" 

Ship,  to  the  roadstead  rolled, 

What  dost  thou? — O,  once  more 

Regain  the  port.      Behold! 
Thy  sides  are  bare  of  oar, 
Thy  tall  mast  wounded  sore 

Of  Africus,  and  see. 

What  shall  thy  spars  restore! — 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea! 

What  cable  now  will  hold 

When  all  drag  out   from  shore! 
What  god  canst  thou,  too  bold. 

In  time  of  need  implore! 

Look!  for  thy  sails  flap  o'er, 
Thy  stiff  shrouds  part  and  flee, 

Fast — fast  thy  seams  outpour, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea! 

What  though  thy  ribs  of  old 

The  pines  of  Pontus  bore! 
Not  now  to  stern  of  gold 

Men  trust,  or  painted  prore! 

Thou,  or  thou  count'st  it  store 
A  toy  of  winds  to  be. 

Shun  thou  the  Cyclads'  roar, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea! 


166  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOY 


Ship  of  the  State,  before 
A  care,  and  now  to  me 

A  hope  in  my  heart's  core, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea! 

Austin  Dobson 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS 

Fair  islands  of  the  silver  fleece. 

Hoards  of  unsunned,  uncounted  gold, 
Whose  havens  are  the  haunts  of  Peace, 

Whose  boys  are  in  our  quarrel  bold; 
Our  bolt  is  shot,  our  tale  is  told, 

Our  ship  of  state  in  storms  may  toss, 
But  ye  are  young  if  we  are  old. 

Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross! 

Aye,  zve  must  dwindle  and  decrease. 

Such  fates  the  ruthless  years  unfold} 
And  yet  we  shall  not  wholly  cease. 

We  shall  not  perish  unconsoled; 
Nay,  still  shall  Freedom  keep  her  hold 

Within  the  sea's  inviolate  fosse. 
And  boast  her  sons  of  English  mould, 

Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross! 

All  empires  tumble — Rome  and  Greece — 

Their  swords  are  rust,  their  altars  cold! 
For  us,  the  Children  of  the  Seas, 

Who  ruled  where'er  the  waves  have  rolled, 
For  us,  in  Fortune's  books  enscrolled, 

I  read  no  runes  of  hopeless  loss; 
Nor — while  -^e  last — our  knell  is  tolled, 

Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross! 


BALLADES  '167 

ENVOY 

Britannia,  when  thy  hearth's  a-cold, 

When  o'er  thy  grave  has  grown  the  moss, 

Still  Rule  Australia  shall  be  trolled 
In  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross! 

Andrew  Lan^ 

A  BALLAD  OF  BATH 

Like  a  queen  enchanted  who  may  not  laugh  or  weep, 

Glad  at  heart  and  guarded  from  change  and  care  like  ours, 
Girt  about  with  beauty  by  days  and  nights  that  creep 
.Soft  as  breathless  ripples  that  softly  shoreward  sweep. 

Lies  the  lovely  city  whose  grace  no  grief  deflowers. 
Age  and  grey  forgetfulness,  time  that  shifts  and  veers, 
Touch  thee  not,  our  fairest,  whose  charm  no  rival  nears. 

Hailed   as  England's   Florence  of  one  whose  praise  gives 
grace, 
Landor,  once  thy  lover,  a  name  that  love  reveres: 

Dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  are  one  before  thy  face. 

Dawn  whereof  we  know  not,  and  noon  whose  fruit  we  reap. 

Garnered  up  in  record  of  years  that  fell  like  flowers, 
Sunset  liker  sunrise  along  the  shining  steep 
Whence  thy  fair  face  lightens,  and  where  thy  soft  springs 
leap. 

Crown    at    once    and   gird   thee   with    grace    of   guardian 
powers. 
Loved  of  men  beloved  of  us,  souls  that  fame  inspheres. 
All  thine  air  hath  music  for  him  who  dreams  and  hears; 

Voices  mixed  of  multitudes,  feet  of  friends  that  pace, 
Witness  why  for  ever,  if  heaven's  face  clouds  or  clears, 

Dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  are  one  before  thy  face. 

Peace  hath  here  found  harbourage  mild  as  very  sleep: 

Not  the  hills  and  waters,  the  fields  and  wildwood  bowers. 
Smile  or  speak  more  tenderly,  clothed  with  peace  more  deep, 
Here  than  memory  whispers  of  days  our  memories  keep 
Fast  with  love  and  laughter  and  dreams  of  withered  hours. 


168  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Bright  were  these  as  blossom  of  old,  and  thought  endears 
Still  the  fair  soft  phantoms  that  pass  with  smiles  or  tears, 

Sweet  as  roseleaves  hoarded  and  dried  wherein  we  trace 
Still  the  soul  and  spirit  of  sense  that  lives  and  cheers: 

Dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  are  one  before  thy  face. 

City  lulled  asleep  by  the  chime  of  passing  years. 

Sweeter  smiles  thy  rest  than  the  radiance  round  thy  peers; 

Only  love  and  lovely  remembrance  here  have  place. 
Time  on  thee  lies  lighter  than  music  on  men's  ears; 

Dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  are  one  before  thy  face. 

Algernon  Charles  Szvinburne 

A  BALLADE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Far  from  the  earth  the  deep-descended  day 

Lies  dim  in  hidden  sanctuaries  of  sleep. 

The  winged  winds  couched  on  the  threshold  keep 

Uneasy  watch,  and  still  expectant  stay 

The  voice  that  bids  their  rushing  host  delay 

No  more  to  rise,  and  with  tempestuous  power 

Rend  the  wide  veil  of  heaven.     Long  watching  they 

Sigh  in  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Hark!   where  the  forests  slow  in  slumber  sway 
Below  the  blue  wild  ridges,  steep  on  steep, 
Thronging  the  sky — how  shuddering  as  they  leap 
The  impetuous  waters  go  their  fated  way. 
And  mourn  in  mountain  chasms,  and  as  they  stray 
By  many  a  magic  town  and  marble  tower, 
As  those  that  still  unreconciled  obey. 
Sigh  in  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Listen — the  quiet  darkness  doth  array 
The  toiling  earth,  and  there  is  time  to  weep — 
A  deeper  sound  is  mingled  with  the  sweep 
Of  streams  and  winds  that  whisper  far  away. 
Oh  listen!  where  the  populous  cities  lay 
Low  in  the  lap  of  sleep  their  ancient  dower, 
The  changeless  spirit  of  our  changeful  clay 
Sighs  in  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour. 


BALLADES  169 

Sigh,  watcher  for  a  dawn  remote  and  gray, 
Mourn,  journeyer  to  an  undesired  deep, 
Eternal  sower,  thou  that  shalt  not  reap, 
Immortal,  whom  the  plagues  of  God  devour. 
Mourn — 'tis  the  hour  when  thou  wert  wont  to  pray. 
Sigh  in  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Margaret  L.  Woods 


BALLADE  OF  WINDY  NIGHTS 

Have  you  learnt  the  sorrow  of  windy  nights 

When  lilacs  down  in  the  garden  moan, 
And  stars  are  flickering  faint,  wan  lights, 

And  voices  whisper  in  wood  and  stone? 

When  steps  on  the  stairway  creak  and  groan, 
And  shadowy  ghosts  take  an  hour  of  ease 

In  dim-lit  galleries  all  their  own? 
Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these? 

Have  you  lain  awake  on  the  windy  nights 

Slighted  by  sleep  and  to  rest  unknown. 
When  keen  remorse  is  a  whip  that  smites 

With  every  gust  on  the  window  blown? 

When  phantom  Love  from  a  broken  throne 
Steps  down  through  the  Night's  torn  tapestries, 

Sad-eyed  and  wistful,  and  ah!   so  alone? 
Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these? 

Have  you  felt  a  touch  on  the  windy  nights — 

The  touch  of  a  hand  not  flesh  nor  bone. 
But  a  mystical  something,  pale,  that  plights 

With  waning  stars  and  with  dead  stars  strown? 

Or  heard  grey  lips  with  the  fire  all  flown 
Pleading  again  in  a  lull  o'  the  breeze — 

A  long  life's  wreck  in  a  short  hour  shown? 
Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these? 

Ah^  the  whirlwind  reafed  where  a  wind  is  sown^ 
And  the  fhantom  Love  in  the  7iight  one  sees! 


170  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  A,  the  touching  hand  and  the  pleading  tone! 
Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these? 

Will  H.  OjiilvU 


BALLADE  OF  CHRISTMAS  GHOSTS 

Between  the  moonlight  and  the  fire 
In  winter   twilights  long  ago, 
What  ghosts  we  raised  for  your  desire 
To  make  your  merry  blood  run  slow! 
How  old,  how  grave,  how  wise  we  grow! 
No  Christmas  ghost  can  make  us  chill. 
Save  those  that  troop  in  mournful  row, 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will ! 

The  beasts  can  talk  in  barn  and  byre 
On  Christmas  Eve,  old  legends  know, 
As  year  by  year  the  years  retire, 
We  men  fall  silent  then  I  trow. 
Such  sights  hath   Memory  to  show, 
Such  voices  from  the  silence  thrill, 
Such  shapes  return  with  Christmas  snow, — 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will. 

Oh,  children  of  the  village  choir. 
Your  carols  on  the  midnight  throw. 
Oh,  bright   across  the   mist   and  mire, 
Ye  ruddy  hearths  of  Christmas  glow! 
Beat  back  the  dread,  beat  down  the  woe, 
Let's  cheerily  descend  the  hill; 
Be  welcome  all,  to  come  or  go. 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will! 

ENVOY 

Friend,  sursum  corda,  soon  or  slow 
We  part,  like  guests  who've  joyed  their  fill; 
Forget  them  not,  nor  mourn  them  so. 
The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at  will! 

A.  Lang 


BALLADES  171 


IN  WINTER* 

Oh,   to  go  back  to  the   days  of  June, 

Just  to  be  young  and  alive  again,  C 

Hearken  again  to  the  mad,  sweet  tune 

Birds  were  singing  with  might  and  main: 
South  they  flew  at  the  summer's  wane, 

Leaving  their  nests  for  storms  to  harry, 
Since  time  was  coming  for  wind  and  rain 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 

Wearily  wander  by  dale  and  dune 

Footsteps  fettered  with  clanking  chain — 
Free  they  were  in  the  days  of  June, 

Free  they  never  can  be  again: 
Fetters  of  age,  and  fetters  of  pain, 

Joys  that  fly,  and  sorrows  that  tarry — 
Youth  is  over,  and  hopes  were  vain 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 

Now  we  chant  but  a  desolate  rune — 

Oh,  to  be  young  and  alive  again! 
But  never  December  turns  to  June, 

And  length  of  living  is  length  of  pain: 
Winds  in  the  nestless  trees  complain. 

Snows  of  winter  about  us  tarry. 
And  never  the  birds  come  back  again 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 

ENVOI 

Youths  and  maidens,  blithesome  and  vain. 
Time  makes  thrusts  that  you  cannot  parry; 

Mate  in  season,  for  who  is  fain 
Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry? 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

*  From    Poems    and    Sonnets    by    Louise    Chandler    Moulton. 
Copyright   1909,  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Publishers. 


172  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  PIXIES 

The  frost  hath  spread  a  shining  net 

Where   late   the   autumn    roses   blew, 
On  lake  and  stream  a  seal  is  set 

Where  floating  lilies  charmed  the  view; 

So  silently  the  wonder  grew 
Beneath  pale  Dian's  mystic  light, 

I  know  my  fancies  whisper  true, 
The  Pixies  are  abroad  to-night. 

When  at  the  midnight  chime  are  met 

Together  elves  of  every  hue, 
I  trow  the  gazer  will  regret 

That  peers  upon  their  retinue; 

For  limb  awry  and  eye  askew 
Have  oft  proclaimed  a  fairy's  spite — 

Peep  slyly,  gallants,  lest  ye  rue, 
The  Pixies  are  abroad  to-night. 

'Tis  said  their  forms  are  tiny,  yet 

All  human  ills  they  can  subdue. 
Or  with  a  wand  or  amulet 

Can  win  a  maiden's  heart  for  you; 

And  many  a  blessing  know  to  strew 
To  make  the  way  to  wedlock  bright; 

Give  honour  to  the  dainty  crew. 
The  Pixies  are  abroad  to-night. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  e'en  a  prince  might  vainly  sue, 

Unaided  by  a  fairy's  might; 
Remember  Cinderella's  shoe, 

The  Pixies  are  abroad  to-night. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


BALLADES  173 

BALLADE  TO  THEOCRITUS,  IN  WINTER  * 

eaopuv  rav  HiKcXdv  eg  aXa 

Id.  viii,  56. 

Ah!  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar 
Of   London,   leave    the   bustling   street, 
For  still,  by  the  Sicilian  shore. 
The  murmur  of  the  Muse  is  sweet. 
Still,  still,  the  suns  of  summer  greet 
The  mountain-grave  of  Helike, 
And  shepherds  still  their  songs  repeat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

What  though  they  worship  Pan  no  more, 
That  guarded  once  the  shepherd's  seat, 
They  chatter  of  their  rustic  lore. 
They  watch  the  wind  among  the  wheat; 
Cicalas  chirp,  the  young  lambs  bleat. 
Where  whispers  pine  to  cypress  tree; 
They  count  the  waves  that  idly  beat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

Theocritus!    thou  canst  restore 
The  pleasant  years,  and  over-fleet; 
With  thee  we  live  as  men  of  yore, 
We  rest  where   running  waters  meet: 
And  then  we  turn  unwilling  feet 
And  seek  the  world — so  must  it  be — 
We  may  not  linger  in  the  heat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea! 

ENVOY 

Master, — when  rain,  and  snow,  and  sleet 
And  northern  winds  are  wild,  to  thee 
We  come,  we  rest  in  thy  retreat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea! 

Andrew  Lang 

*  From   Ballades  and.   Verses   Vain  by  Andrew  Lang.     Copy- 
right  1884  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


174-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


FAREWELL,  FAREWELL,  OLD  YEAR 

The  hungry  north  wind  whines 

Around  the  barred  door, 
And  through  the  proud  old  pines 

Is  heard  its  ruthless  roar: 

With  wailing  waves  that  pour 
Their  plaint  upon  the  ear, 

It  echoes  o'er  and  o'er, 
"Farewell,  farewell,  old  year!" 

Snow  hides  the  leafless  vines 

That  fleecy  blossoms  bore, 
In  long  and  lonely  lines 

Beside  the  streamlet's  shore. 

For  suns  that  beam  no  more 
Above  earth's  frozen  bier 

The  tall  bare  trees  implore, 
"Farewell,  farewell,  old  year!" 

Yet  while  warm  firelight  shines 
On  heads  both  young  and  hoar. 

Although  no  heart   divines 

What  fate  may  have  in  store, 
Mourn  not  for  days  of  yore, 

But  sing  with  merry  cheer 
As  blithe  as  birds  that  soar, 

"Farewell,   farewell,   old  year!" 

ENVOY 

O  friend,  as  heretofore. 

In  spring  dark  skies  will  clear, 

Buds  burst  to  bloom  once  more: 
"Farewell,  farewell,  old  year!" 

Clinton  Scollard 


BALLADES  175 


A  BALLADE  OF  THE  FIRST  RAIN 

The  sky  is  blue  with  summer  and  the  sun, 
The  woods  are  brown  as  autumn  with  the  tan. 
It  might  as  well  be  Tropics  and  be  done, 
I  might  as  well  be  born  a  copper  Khanj 
I  fashion  me  an  oriental  fan 
Made  of  the  wholly  unreceipted  bills 
Brought  by  the  ice-man,  sleeping  in  his  van 
(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

I  read  the  Young  Philosophers  for  fun 
— Fresh  as  our  sorrow  for  the  late  Queen  Anne— 
The  Dionysians  whom  a  pint  would  stun. 
The  Pantheists  who  never  heard  of  Pan. 
— But  through  my  hair  electric  needles  ran, 
And  on  my  book  a  gout  of  water  spills, 
And  on  the  skirts  of  heaven  the  guns  began 
(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

O  fields  of  England,  cracked  and  dry  and  dun, 
O  soul  of  England,  sick  of  words,  and  wan! — 
The  clouds  grow  dark; — the  down-rush  has  begun. 
— It  comes,  it  comes,  as  holy  darkness  can, 
Black  as  with  banners,  ban  and  arriere-ban; 
A  falling  laughter  all  the  valley  fills, 
Deep  as  God's  thunder  and  the  thirst  of  man: 
(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

ENVOI 

Prince,  Prince-Elective  on  the  modern  plan, 
Fulfilling  such  a  lot  of  People's  Wills, 
You  take  the  Chiltern  Hundreds  while  you  can — 
A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills. 

G.  K.  Chesterton 


176  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  EASTER  DAWN 

The  gaunt  trees  black  and  naked  stand, 

And  crackle,  as  the  wind  sweeps  by; 
Their  boles  break  the  horizon,  and 

Their  branches  arabesque  the  sky. 

It  is  the  dark  hour.     Shivering  lie 
The  herds,   in  silence  ominous — 

Then  dawn  breaks,  and  there  sounds  the  cry 
Of  "Resurrexit  Dominus!" 

Creeps  then  a  soft  light  o'er  the  strand, 

And  dawn-birds  preen  their  wings  to  fly. 
Across  the  graying  east,  a  band 

Of  brightness  stretches,  broad  and  high. 

The  early  breezes  cease  to  sigh — 
A  quiet,  holy  calm  in  us 

Prepares  us  for  the  gladsome  cry 
Of  "Resurrexit  Dominus!" 

Then,  sunrise!     And  across  the  land 

Cloud-tints  and  flower-colors  vie; 
Earth  glows  with  life  at  His  command — 

The  glory  of  the  Lord  is  nigh! 

A  new  world  born  before  the  eye, 
Heaven  sheds  its  quickening  balm  on  us, 

And  angels'  voices  chant  the  cry 
Of  "Resurrexit  Dominus!" 

Lord!     In  a  night  our  winters  die 
And  spring  inspires  her  psalm  in  us; 

Death  yields  to  immortality — 
"Sic  Resurrexit  Dominus!" 

Edwin  Meade  Robimon 


BALLADES  177 


BALLADE  OF  SPRING 

There's  a  noise  of  coming,  going, 

Budding,  waking,  vast   and   still. 
Hark,  the  echoes  are  yeo-hoing 

Loud  and  sweet  from  vale  and  hill! 

Do  you  hear  it?      With  a  will, 
In  a  grandiose  lilt  and  swing, 

Nature's  voices  shout  and  trill.  .  .  , 
'Tis  the  symphony  of  Spring! 

Rains  are  singing,  clouds  are  flowing. 
Ocean  thunders,  croons  the  rill. 

And  the  West  his  clarion's  blowing. 
And  the  sparrow  tunes  his  quill, 
And  the  thrush  is  fluting  shrill, 

And  the  skylark's  on  the  wing. 

And  the  merles  their  hautboys  fill — 

'Tis  the  symphony  of  Spring! 

Lambs  are  bleating,  steers  are  lowing. 

Brisk  and  rhythmic  clacks  the  mill. 
Kapellmeister  April,  glowing 

And  superb  with  glee  and  skill. 

Comes,  his  orchestra  to  drill 
In  a  music  that  will  ring 

Till  the  grey  world  yearn  and  thriU. 
'Tis  the  symphony  of  Spring! 

ENVOY 

Princes,  though  your  blood  be  chill. 
Here's  shall  make  you  leap  and  fling. 

Fling  and  leap  like  Jack  and  Jill! 
'Tis  the  symphony  of  Spring. 

W.  E.  Henley 


178  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  THRUSH 


Across  the  noisy  street 

I  hear  him  careless  throw 

One  warning  utterance  sweet; 
Then  faint  at  first,  and  low, 
The  full  notes  closer  grow; 

Hark!  what  a  torrent  gush! 
They  pour,  they  overflow — 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush! 


What  trick,  what  dream's  deceit 
Has  fooled  his  fancy  so 

To  scorn  of  dust  and  heat? 
I,  prisoned  here  below, 
Feel  the  fresh  breezes  blow; 

And  see,  thro'  flag  and  rush, 
Cool  water  sliding  slow — 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush! 


Sing  on.     What  though  thou  beat 

On  that  dull  bar,  thy  foe! 
Somewhere  the  green  boughs  meet 

Beyond  the  roofs  a-row; 

Somewhere  the  blue  skies  show. 
Somewhere  no  black  walls  crush 

Poor  hearts  with  hopeless  woe — 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush! 


ENVOY 

Bird,  though  they  come,  we  know. 
The  empty  cage,  the  hush; 

Still,  ere  the  brief  day  go. 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  O  Thrush! 

Austin  Dobson 


BALLADES  179 


BALLADE  OF  JUNE 

Lilacs  glow,  and  jasmines  climb, 
Larks  are  loud  the  livelong  day. 

O  the  golden  summer-prime! 

June  takes  up  the  sceptre  of  May, 
And  the  land  beneath  her  sway 

Glows,  a  dream  of  flowerful  closes, 
And  the  very  wind's  at  play 

With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 


Lights  and  shadows  in  the  lime 

Meet  in  exquisite  disarray. 
Hark!  the  rich  recurrent  rhyme 

Of  the  blackbird's  roundelay! 

Where  he  carols,  frank  and  gay, 
Fancy  no  more  glooms  or  proses; 

Joyously  she  flits  away 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 


O  the  cool  sea's  slumberous  chime! 

O  the  links  that  beach  the  bay, 
Tricked  with  meadow-sweet  and  thyme, 

Where  the  brown  bees  murmur  and  stray! 

Lush  the  hedgerows,  ripe  the  hay! 
Many  a  maiden,  binding  posies. 

Finds  herself  at  Yea-and-Nay 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 


ENVOI 

Boys  and  girls,  be  wise,  I  pray! 
Do  as  dear  Queen  June  proposes, 

For  she  bids  you  troop  and  stay 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

W.  E.  Henley 


180  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  ASPIRATION 

O  to  be  somewhere  by  the  sea, 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  shine, 
From  Mammon's  priests  and  from  Mammon's 
shrine. 

From  the  stony  street,  and  the  grim  decree 
That  over  an  inkstand  crooks  my  spine, 

From  the  books  that  are  and  the  books  to  be, 
And  the  need  that  makes  of  the  sacred  Nine 
A  school  of  harridans! — sweetheart  mine, 

O  to  be  somewhere  by  the  sea! 

Under  a  desk  I  bend  my  knee. 

Whether  the  morn  be  foul  or  fine. 

I  envy  the  tramp,  in  a  ditch  supine. 
Or  footing  it  over  the  sunlit  lea. 

But  I  struggle  and  write  and  make  no  sign, 
For  a  labouring  ox  must  earn  his  fee, 

And  even  a  journalist  has  to  dine; 

But  O  for  a  breath  of  the  eglantine! 
O  to  be  somewhere  by  the  sea! 

Out  on  the  links,  where  the  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  surges  gush,  and  the  rounding  brine 
Wanders  and  sparkles,  an  air  like  wine 

Fills  the  senses  with  pride  and  glee. 

In  neighbour  hedges  are  flowers  to  twine, 

A  white  sail  glimmers,  the  foamlines  flee: 
Life,  love,  and  laziness  are  a  trine 
Worshipful,  wonderful,  dear,  divine.  .  .  , 

O  to  be  somewhere  by  the  sea! 

ENVOY 

Out  and  alas  for  the  sweet  Lang  Syne, 

When  I  was  rich  in  a  certain  key — 

The  key  of  the  fields;  and  I  hadn't  to  pine, 
Or  to  sigh  in  vain  at  the  sun's  decline, 

O  to  be  somewhere  by  the  Sea! 

W.  E.  Henley 


BALLADES  181 


A  BALLADE  OF  SPRING'S  UNREST 

Up  in  the  woodland  where  Spring 
Comes  as  a  laggard,  the  breeze 
Whispers  the  pines  that  the  King, 
Fallen,  has  yielded  the  keys 
To  his  White  Palace  and  flees 
Northward  o'er  mountain  and  dale. 
Speed  then  the  hour  that  frees! 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 


Northward  my  fancy  takes  wing. 
Restless  am  I,  ill  at  ease. 
Pleasures  the  city  can  bring 
Lose  now  their  power  to  please. 
Barren,  all  barren,  are  these, 
Town  life's  a  tedious  tale; 
That  cup  is  drained  to  the  lees — 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 


Ho,  for  the  morning  I  sling 
Pack  at  my  back,  and  with  knees 
Brushing  a  thoroughfare,  fling 
Into  the  green  mysteries: 
One  with  the  birds  and  the  bees. 
One  with  the  squirrel  and  quail, 
Night,  and  the  stream's  melodies— 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 


l'envoi 


Pictures  and  music  and  teas. 
Theaters — books  even — stale. 
Ho,  for  the  smell  of  the  trees! 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 

Bert  Lesion  Taylor 


182  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  FOG  IN  THE  CANON 

Banked  in  a  serried  drift  beside  the  sea, 

Rolling,  wind-harried,  in  a  snowy  spray, 
Majestic  and  mysterious,  swirling  free. 

The  ghostly  flood  is  massing,  cold  and  grey; 

Inland  it  marches,  and,  at  close  of  day, 
Pearl-white  and  opal,  sunset-hued  with  rose, 

It  storms  the  ridge,  and  then,  in  brave  array, 
The  fog's  dumb  army  up  the  caiion  goes. 


And  now  the  forest  whispers,  tree  to  tree — 

Their  grim  defense  is  marshalled  for  the  fray; 
Pine,  fir,  and  redwood,  standing  cap-a-pie, 

Down  the  long  spurs  and  on  the  hill  tops  sway. 

And  now  the  misty  vanguards,  wild  and  gay, 
Ride  down  the  breeze — and  now  their  squadrons  close, 

And,  sweeping  like  an  ocean  on  its  prey. 
The  fog's  dumb  army  up  the  caiion  goes. 


The  trembling  bushes  cower  in   the  lee. 

O'er  the  mad  rout  the  ragged  smoke-wreaths  play, 

And  scurrying  cloudlets  desperately  flee. 
On  the  low  crests  the  waving  banners  stay. 
Now  lost,  now  conquering,  striving  to  delay 

The  riotous  deluge — yet  in  vain  oppose — 
Height  after  height  is  carried,  and  away 

The  fog's  dumb  army  up  the  canon  goeSj 


ENVOY 

All  night  the  battle  wages,  weird  and  fey, 

And  gallant  woods  dispute  their  phantom  foes; 

But,   conquering,  overwhelming  with   dismay, 
The  fog's  dumb  army  up  the  canon  goes. 

Gelett  Burgess 


BALLADES  183 


BALLADE  OF  THE  PIPESMOKE  CARRY 

The  Ancient  Wood  is  white  and  still, 
Over  the  pines  the  bleak  wind  blows, 
Voiceless  the  brook  and  mute  the  rill. 
Silence  too  where  the  river  flows. 
Still  I  catch  the  scent  of  the  rose 
And  hear  the  white-throat's  roundelay. 
Footing  the  trail  that  Memory  knows, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


I  have  only  a  pipe  to  fill: 
Weaving,  wreathing  rings  disclose 
A  trail   that  flings  straight  up  the  hill. 
Straight  as  an  arrow's  flight.     For  those 
Who  fare  by  night  the  pole  star  glows 
Above  the  mountain  top.      By  day 
A  blasted  pine  and  pathway  shows 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


The  Ancient  Wood  is  white  and  chill. 
But  what  know  I  of  wintry  woes? 
The  Pipesmoke  Trail  is  mine  at  will — 
Naught  may  hinder  and  none  oppose. 
Such  the  power  the  pipe  bestows, 
When  the  wilderness  calls  I  may 
Tramping  go,  as  I  smoke  and  doze. 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


i>'envoi 

Deep  in  the  canyons  lie  the  snows: 
They  shall  vanish  if  I  but  say — 
If  my  fancy  a-roving  goes 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

Bert  Leston  Taylor 


18+  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


A  BALLADE  OF  MIDSUMMER 

The  heat  wave  sweeps  along  the  street, 

And  torrid  ripples  mark  its  flow; 
Successive  billows   follow  fleet, 

And  blister  all  things  with  their  glow. 

No  puflf  of  air  swings  to  and  fro; 
No  gentle   zephyr  stirs  the   trees. 

O  for  the  winds  that  o'er  ocean  blow! 
O  for  a  breath  of  the  salt  sea-breeze! 


Along  the  shadeless  ways  you  greet 

No  damsel  fair,  no  buckramed  beau — 
The  solitude  is  ruled  by  heat — 

A  sultry,  sullen,  scorching  woe. 

The  blazing  sun  rides  high  and  slow. 
As  if  with  laziness  to  tease 

The  melting,  sweltering  world  below — 
O  for  a  breath  of  the  salt  sea-breeze! 


The  laggard  steed  with  aching  feet 
Must  stagger  on;  for  him  is  no 

Surcease  of  labor;  no  retreat 

Before  his  stint  is  done.     And  so 
Must  man  still  labour  on,  although 

He  hopeless  longs  to  take  his  ease. 
Or  to  the  ocean  fain  would  go — 

O  for  a  breath  of  the  salt  sea-breeze! 


ENVOI 

Princes  or  peasants,  friend  and  foe. 
No  man  may  have  all  that  he  please; 

Midsummer  heat  shall  lay  him  low — 
O  for  a  breath  of  the  salt  sea-breeze! 

Brander  Matthews 


BALLADES  185 


PRINCESS  BALLADE* 

Never  a  horn  sounds  in  Sherwood  to-night, 
Friar  Tuck's  drinking  Olympian  ale, 

Little  John's  wandered  away  from  our  sight, 
Robin  Hood's  bow  hangs  unused  on  its  naiL 
Even  the  moon  has  grown  weary  and  pale 

Sick  for  the  glint  of  Maid  Marian's  hair, 
But  there  is  one  joy  on  mountain  and  dale. 

Fairies  abound  all  the  time,  everywhere! 

Saints  have  attacked  them  with  sacredest  might, 
They  could  not  shatter  their  gossamer  mail; 

Steam-driven  engines  can  never  affright 

Fairies  who  dance  in  their  spark-sprinkled  trail. 
Still  for  a  warning  the  sad  Banshees  wail, 

Still  are  the  Leprechauns  ready  to  bear 
Purses  of  gold  to  their  captors  for  bail ; 

Fairies  abound  all  the  time,  everywhere! 

Oberon,  King  of  the  realms  of  delight. 

May  your  domain  over  us  never  fail. 
Mab,  as  a  rainbow-hued  butterfly  bright, 

Yours  is  the  glory  that  age  cannot  stale. 

When  we  are  planted  down  under  the  shale, 
Fairy-folk,  drop  a  few  daffodils  there. 

Comfort  our  souls  in  the  Stygian  vale; 
Fairies  abound  all  the  time,  everywhere. 

l'envoi 

White  Flower  Princess,  though  sophisters  rail, 
Let  us  be  glad  in  the  faith  that  we  share. 

None  shall  the  Good  People  safely  assail; 
Fairies  abound  all  the  time,  everywhere! 

Joyce  Kilmer 

*  From  Poems,  Essays  and  Letters  by  Joyce  Kilmer.     Copy* 
right   1914,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 


186  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  AUGUST 

Now,  when  the  street-pent  airs  blow  stale 
A  longing  stirs  us  as  of  yore 

To  take  the  old  Odyssian  trail, 
To  bend  upon  the  trireme's  oar 
For  isled  stream  and  hill-bound  shore; 

To  lay  aside  the  dirty  pen 

For  summer's  blue  and  golden  store 

'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men! 


Then  let  the  rover's  call  prevail 

That  opes  for  us  the  enchanted  door, 

That  bids  us  spread   the  silken  sail 

For  bays  o'er  which  the  seabirds  soar,     ■ 
And  foam-flecked  rollers  pitch  and  roar. 

Where  nymph  maybe,  and  mermaiden. 
Come  beachward  in  the  moon-rise  hoar, 

'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men! 


Blue-eyed  Calypsos,  Circes  pale 

(The  sage  who  shuns  them  I  abhor). 

These — for  a  fortnight — shall  not  fail 
To  thrill  the  heart's  susceptive  core. 
To  bind  us  with  their  ancient  lore. 

Who  rather  like  to  listen  when 

Sweet-lipped  the  sirens  voice  their  score, 

'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men! 


ENVOY 

Masters,  who  seek  the  minted  ore, 
It's  only  August  now  and  then, 

Ah,  take  the  Wanderer's  way  once  more, 
'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men! 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers 


BALLADES  187. 


A  BALLADE  OF  MIDSUMMER 

The  rose  still  blooms  within  the  dipt  parterre, 

A  boon  to  lovers;  still  the  south  winds  sigh; 
There  is  a  sense  of  languor  in  the  air; 

Each  hour  that  passes  seems  too  sweet  to  die. 

Low  croons  the  cuclcoo  where  the  orchards  lie 
Aswoon  in  dreams  from  morn  to  mellow  morn; 

The  wheat  is  golden  'neath  a  gold-blue  sky. 
And  hopes  of  harvest  kindle  in  the  corn. 


The  thrush  at  twilight  weaves  a  silver  snare 
Of  song  that  quavers  till  the  moon  is  high; 

There  is  an  Orient  attar  everywhere; 

Each  hour  that  passes  seems  too  sweet  to  die, 
The  shrill  cicada  sounds  its  sudden  cry 

In  the  hot  bush,  then  leaves  the  silence  lorn; 
An  amber  ripple  runs  along  the  rye, 

While  hopes  of  harvest  kindle  in  the  corn. 


The  mountains  call  us,  stair  on  stately  stair; 

The  glades  invite  us;  we  are  fain  to  fly, 
Leaving  behind  the  thralling  bonds  of  care, — 

(Each  hour  that  passes  seems  too  sweet  to  die.) 

Forgetful  of  the  web  of  ashen  ply, 
To  toil  whereat  were  weary  mortals  born. 

Grasping  the  meed  the  darker  days  deny 
Now  hopes  of  harvest  kindle  in  the  corn. 


ENVOY 

Love,  let  us  share  its  glamour,  you  and  I, 
Each  passing  hour  that  seems  too  sweet  to  die! 
Life  is  at  floodtide,  of  no  glory  shorn, 
When  hopes  of  harvest  kindle  in  the  corn. 

Clinton  Scollard 


188  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  FOREST  IN  SUMMER 

Fra  Cruachan  tae  Aberdeen 

The  hinds'll  move  their  calfies  soon 
Up  frae  the  bracken's  bonnie  green 

To  yon  blue  heights  that  float  aboon; 
Nae  snaws  the  tops  an'  corries  croon; 

Crags  whaur  the  eagle  lifts  his  kills 
Blink  i'  the  gowden  efternoon; 

It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills! 


The  heather  sleeps  frae  morn  till  e'en 

Braw  in  her  reed-an '-purple  goon; 
Sax  weeks  it  wants  or  stags  be  clean 

An'  gang  wi  thickenin'  manes  an'  broun 
Waitin'  the  cauld  October  moon 

When  a'  the  roarin'  brae-face  fills — 
Ye've  heard  yon  wild,  wanchancy  tune? 

It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills! 


Yet  blaws  a  soupin'  breeze  an'  keen; 

We're  wearit  for  it  whiles  in  toun, 
An'  I  wad  be  whaur  I  hae  been 

In  Autumn's  blast  or  heats  o'  June 
Up  on  the  quiet  forest  groun', 

Friens  wi'  the  sun,  or  shoor  that  chills, 
Watchin'  the  beasts  gang  up  an'  doon; 

It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills! 


ENVOY 

Mountains  o'  deer,  ye  ca'  a  loon 
Fra  streets  an'  sic-like  stoury  ills 

Wi'  thankfu'  heart  an'  easy  shoon; 
It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills! 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers 


BALLADES  189 


BALLADE  OF  THE  THINGS  THAT  REMAIN 

The  loveliness  of  water,  its  faery  ways 

With  cloud  and  wind,  its  myriad  sorceries 
With  morning  and  the  moon,  and  stars  agaze 

In  its  still  glass,  and  the  tranced  summer  trees; 

The  vowelled  rivers,  the  rough-throated  seas, 
The  tides  that  brim  with  silver  the  grassy  plain, 

Or  strew  lone  islands  with  lost  argosies: 
We  come  and  go — these  things  remain. 


Fire  and  its  gnomes,  soft-talking  as  it  plays. 
Dream-like,  amid  its  fretted  imageries, 

Or  melting  the  wild  hills,  and  with  its  blaze 
Licking  the  very  stars;  and,  even  as  these, 
The  winds  that  blow  through  all  the  centuries, 

The  falling  snow,  the  shining  April  rain. 
Birds  singing,  and  the  far-off  Pleiades: 

We  come  and  go — these  things  remain. 


God's  glory,  and  the  march  of  nights  and  days. 

The  seals  upon  the  ancient  mysteries 
Of  rose  and  star  and  woman's  magic  face. 

That,  seeing,  man  loves,  yet  knows  not  what  he  sees; 

The  old  sweet  sins,  the  old  sweet  sanctuaries; 
War  and  long  peace,  then  war  and  peace  again ; 

The  Dark  and  in  Death's  hands  the  dreadful  keys: 
We  come  and  go — these  things  remain. 


ENVOI 

Prince,  save  ourselves,  there  is  but  little  flees 
That  comes  not  back,  even  as  this  refrain ; 

'Faith,  'tis  a  thought  that  doth  me  greatly  please: 
We  come  and  go — these  things  remain. 

Richard  Le  Gallienna 


190  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ALONE   IN  ARCADY 

Love,  harken  how  the  boughs  o'erhead 

Their  lute-like  notes  are  murmuring! 
It  is  as  though  the  year  had  spread 

About  us  an  eternal  spring; 

Joy  breathes  from  every  living  thing; 
The  air  is  sweet  with  harmony; 

Linnet  and  lark  their  ardors  fling; — 
We  are  alone  in  Arcady. 


Love,  there's  an  Orient  attar  shed 

From  blooms  that  climb  and  blooms  that  cling, 
Fragrance  to  subtle  fragrance  wed 

To  us  the  vagrant  breezes  bring; 

Roses  have  lost  their  thorns  to  sting; 
The  lilies  gleam  like  ivory; 

Each  violet — ah,  the  marveling! 
We  are  alone  in  Arcady! 


Love,  streams  by  lyric  raptures  led 

Through  reedy  coverts  slip  and  sing, 
As  when  of  yore  Adonis  bled. 

Or  Orpheus  touched  the  plaintive  string 

Upon  his  weary  wandering 
In  search  of  pale  Persephone; 

Time  seems  to  fold  his  hastening  wing;-^ 
We  are  alone  in  Arcady! 

ENVOY 

Love,  whatsoever  path  we  tread, 
If  side  by  side  our  ways  may  be, 

Then  of  a  sooth  it  may  be  said, — 
"We  are  alone  in  Arcady!" 

Clinton  Scollard 


BALLADES  191 

BALLADE  OF  BROKEN  FLUTES* 
(To  A.  T.  Schumann) 

In  dreams  I  crossed  a  barren  land, 

A  land  of  ruin,  far  away; 
Around  me  hung  on  every  hand 

A  deathful  stillness  of  decay; 

And  silent,  as  in  bleak  dismay 
That  song  should  thus  forsaken  be, 

On  that  forgotten  ground  there  lay 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

The  forest  that  was  all  so  grand 

When  pipes  and  tabors  had  their  sway 
Stood  leafless  now,  a  ghostly  band 

Of  skeletons  in  cold  array. 

A  lonely  surge  of  ancient  spray 
Told  of  an  un forgetful  sea, 

But  iron  blows  had  hushed  for  aye 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

No  more  by  summer  breezes  fanned, 

The  place  was  desolate  and  gray; 
But  still  my  dream  was  to  command 

New  life  into  that  shrunken  clay. 

I  tried  it.     And  you  scan  to-day. 
With  uncommiserating  glee, 

The  songs  of  one  who  strove  to  play 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

ENVOY 

So,  Rock,  I  join  the  common  fray, 

To  fight  where  Mammon  may  decree; 

And  leave,  to  crumble  as  they  may. 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

♦From  The  Children  of  the  Night.  Copyright  1896-1897  by 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Published  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


192  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  SOLITUDE 

Thank  Heaven,  In  these  despondent  days, 

I  have  at  least  one  faithful  friend. 
Who  meekly  listens  to  my  lays, 

As  o'er  the  darkened  downs  we  wend. 

Nay,  naught  of  mine  may  him  offend; 
In  sooth  he  is  a  courteous  wight, 

His  constancy  needs  no  amend — 
My  shadow  on  a  moonlight  night. 


Too  proud  to  give  me  perjured  praise, 

He  hearkens  as  we  onward  tend, 
And  ne'er  disputes  a  doubtful  phrase, 

Nor  says  he  cannot  comprehend. 

Might  God  such  critics  always  send! 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  or  right, 

But  patient  follows  to  the  end — 
My  shadow  on  a  moonlight  night. 


And  if  the  public  grant  me  bays. 

On  him  no  jealousies  descend; 
But  through  the  midnight  woodland  ways, 

He  velvet-footed  will  attend ; 

Or  where  the  chalk  cliffs  downward  bend 
To  meet  the  sea  all  silver-bright, 

There  will  he  come,  most  reverend — 
My  shadow  on  a  moonlight  night. 


ENVOY     ■ 

O  wise  companion,  I   commend 
Your  grace  in  being  silent  quite; 

And  envy  with  approval  blend — 
My  shadow  on  a  moonlight  night. 

William  Black 


BALLADES  193 


ASPHODEL 


Now  who  will  thread  the  winding  way, 

Afar  from  fervid  summer  heat, 
Beyond  the  sunshafts  of  the  day. 

Beyond  the  blast  of  winter  sleet? 

In  the  green  twilight,  dimly  sweet. 
Of  poplar  shades  the  shadows  dwell. 

Who  found  erewhile  a  fair  retreat 
Along  the  mead  of  Asphodel. 

There  death  and  birth  are  one,  they  say; 

Those  lowlands  bear  no  yellow  wheat. 
No  sound  doth  rise  of  mortal  fray. 

Of  lowing  herds,  of  flocks  that  bleat; 

Nor  wind  nor  rain  doth  blow  nor  beat; 
Nor  shrieketh  sword,  nor  tolleth  bell; 

But  lovers  one  another  greet 
Along  the  mead  of  Asphodel. 

I  would  that  there  my  soul  might  stray; 

I  would  my  phantom,  fair  and  fleet, 
Might  cleave  the  burden  of  the  clay, 

Might  leave  the  murmur  of  the  street, 

Nor  with  half-hearted  prayer  entreat 
The  half-believed-in  Gods;  too  well 

I  know  the  name  I  shall  repeat 
Along  the  mead  of  Asphodel. 

Queen  Proserpine,  at  whose  white  feet 
In  life  my  love  I  may  not  tell. 

Wilt  give  me  welcome  when  we  meet 
Along  the  mead  of  Asphodel? 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


19+  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  DREAMS 

"Captain,  for  what  brave  hire 

Sail'st  thou  upon  this  sea?" 
"I  have  dreamt  a  dream  of  desire, 

And  I  seek  no  other  fee. 
Shores  sweet  with  rosemary 

Down  to  blue  waters  grew — 
...  1  dreamt:  yet  I  say  to  thee 

Only  our  dreams  are  true. 


"I  see  the  gleam  of  a  spire, 

The  hint  of  a  shadowed  tree, 
The  glint  of  the  sun,  like  fire, 

Where  haply  that  land  may  be." 
"In  dreaming  your  youth  may  flee, 

Captain  and  vagrant  crew." 
"Good  luck  to  our  vagrancy! 

Only  our  dreams  are  true." 


"The  sea  has  a  deadly  ire. 

Her  sorrows  are  ill  to  dree; 
Does  not  thy  sailing  tire? 

What  of  thy  Arcady? " 
"I  bear  with  adversity, 

Bear  with  the  sea's  great  rue. 
1  have  dreamt  of  a  port  ...  ay  me' 

Only  our  dreams  are  true." 


ENVOI 

Sailors  of  all  degree, 

This  I  do  say  to  you — 
Voyage  on  hofefully, 

Only  our  dreams  are  true. 

Rose  E.  Macaulay 


BALLADES  '^5 


BALLADE  BY  THE  FIRE  * 

Slowly  I  smoke  and  hug  my  knee, 

The  while  a  witless  masquerade 
Of  things  that  only  children  see 

Floats  in  a  mist  of  light  and  shade: 

They  pass,  a  flimsy  cavalcade, 
And  with  a  weak,  remindful  glow, 

The  falling  embers  break  and  fade, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

Then,  with  a  melancholy  glee 

To  think  where  once  my  fancy  strayed, 

I  muse  on  what  the  years  may  be 
Whose  coming  tales  are  all  unsaid, 
Till  tongs  and  shovel,  snugly  laid 

Within  their  shadowed  niches,  grow 
By  grim  degrees  to  pick  and  spade, 

As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

But  then,  what  though  the  mystic  Three 

Around  me  ply  their  merry  trade?  — 
And  Charon  soon  may  carry  me 

Across  the  gloomy  Stygian  glade?  — 

Be  up,  my  soul;  nor  be  afraid 
Of  what  some  unborn  year  may  show; 

But  mind  your  human  debts  are  paid, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

ENVOY 

Life  is  the  game  that  must  be  played: 

This  truth  at  least,  good  friends,  we  know; 

So  live  and  laugh,  nor  be  dismayed 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

Edzvin  Arlington,  Robinson 

♦From  The  Children  of  the  Night.  Copyright  1896-18  97 
by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Published  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


196  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  VAIN  HOPES 

O  ghosts  of  Bygone  Hours,  that  stand 

Upon  the  marge  of  yonder  shore 
Where  by  the  pale  feet-trampled  sand 

(Though  none  is  seen  to  walk  that  floor) 

The  Stygian  wave  flows  evermore: 
We  fain  would  buy  what  ye  can  tell, 

Speak!     Speak!     And  thrill  to  each  heart's  core- 
Vain  Hofes  are  all  we  have  to  sell! 


O  spectral  Hours  that  throng  this  land — 
Where  no  sweet  floods  of  sunshine  pour, 

But  vast,  tenebriously  grand, 

Dense  glooms  abide,  wind-swept  or  frore — 
O  ye  who  thus  have  gone  before. 

Break  silence — break  your  charmed  spell! 
Heed  not  our  negligence  of  yore! 

Vain  Ho-pes  are  all  we  have  to  sell! 


O  sombre,  sad-eyed,  shadowy  band. 

Speak,  speak,  and  wave  not  o'er  and  o'er 

Each  wan  phantasmal  shadow-hand; 
O  say,  if  when  with  battling  sore 
We  cross  the  flood  and  hear  the  roar 

O'  the  world  like  a  sighed  farewell. 

What  waits  beyond  the  Grave's  last  door? 

Vain  Hofes  are  all  we  have  to  sell  I 


ENVOY 

O  coming  Hours,  O  unspent  store, 
Your  promise  breathe — as  in  sea-shell 

Imprison'd  Echo  sings  her  lore — 
Vain  Hofes  are  all  we  have  to  sell! 

William  Sharf 


BALLADES  197 


"KING  PANDION,  HE  IS  DEAD" 

"King  Pandion,  he  is  dead; 
All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead." 

— Shakes-peare. 

Dreamers,  drinkers,  rebel  youth, 
Where's  the  folly  free  and  fine 

You  and  I  mistook  for  truth? 

Wits  and  wastrels,  friends  of  wine, 
Wags  and  poets,  friends  of  mine, 

Gleams  and  glamors  all  are  fled. 
Fires  and  frenzies  half  divine! 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead! 

Time's  unmannerly,  uncouth! 

Here's  the  crow's-foot  for  a  sign! 
And,  upon  our  brows,  forsooth. 

Wits  and  wastrels,  friends  of  wine, 

Time  hath  set  his  mark  malign; 
Frost  has  touched  us,  heart  and  head. 

Cooled  the  blood  and  dulled  the  eyne: 
King  Pandion,  he  is  dead! 

Time's  a  tyrant  without  ruth: — 
Fancies  used  to  bloom  and  twine 

Round  a  common  tavern  booth. 

Wits  and  wastrels,  friends  of  wine, 
In  that  youth  of  mine  and  thine! 

'Tis  for  youth  the  feast  is  spread ; 

When  we  dine  now — we  but  dine! — 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead! 

How  our  dreams  would  glow  and  shine, 
Wits  and  wastrels,  friends  of  wine. 
Ere  the  drab  Hour  came  that  said: 
King  Pandion,  he  is  dead! 

Don  Marquu 


198  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

BALLADE   OF  THE  COGNOSCENTI 

Out  of  the  silence  some  one  called  my  name 

Straight  to  my  side  a  winged  message  flew 

Out  of  the  dark  an  unknown  shadow  came, 

And  lo,  we  were  revealed  at  last,  and  knew! 

Despite  the  chance  of  time  and  distance,  grew 
The  union,  that  in  mystery  began; 

This  was  the  sign,  and  in  its  hope  we  two 
Make  ready  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

So  soul  to  soul  does  boldly  kinship  claim 

For  them  that  know  the  master-word  and  clue; 
So   secret   friendship   kindles   into   flame, 

Fired  by  the  spark  that  smoulders,  out  of  view. 

Thus  leaps  the  prophecy  the  sad  world  through 

Truth  marches  ever  onward — in  her  van 

The  Cognoscenti,  leagued  with  purpose  true, 
Make  ready  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

Who  wove  this  human  web  upon  the  frame 

Of  the  round  earth,  and  its  great  pattern  drew, 
To  make  the  fabric  of  His  glorious  aim — 

He  knows  the  warp  and  woof  and  every  hue; 

He  knows  the  strands  of  life,  and  how  pursue, 
Appearing,  disappearing,  by  His  plan, 

The  threads  that  knit  the  souls  illumined,  who 
Make  ready  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


ENVOY 


lue 


O  Cognoscenti,  by  your  light  subdi.. 

The  night  of  Ignorance,  and  Error's  ban! 
The  Ages'  Promise,  ye,  O  blessed   Few; 

Make  ready  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man! 

Gelett  Burgess 


BALLADES  199 


"FROM  BATTLE,  MURDER  AND  SUDDEN  DEATH, 
GOOD  LORD,  DELIVER  US" 

What  of  this  prayer  which  myriad  skies 

Hear  from  the  shrines  where  tired  men  kneel, 
Godward  upturning  anguished  eyes, 

Clasping  gaunt  hands  in  strong  appeal? 

What  of  this  fear  that  worn  lives  feel? 
Why  should  some  strain  their  labouring  breath, 

Since  they  must  gain  not  woe  but  weal, 
From  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death! 

Is  it  not  well  with  him  who  dies 

Flushed  amid  smoke  and  flash  of  steel; 
Stabbed  by  some  traitor's  swift  surprise; 

Stricken   by  doom  no  signs  reveal? 

Ruin  and  wrong  can  no  more  deal 
Blows  beneath  which  (man's  record  saith) 

Men  ask  deliverance,  while  they  reel, 
From  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death! 

Can  one  so  dead  be  harmed  by  lies. 

Tortured  by  wounds  smiles  ill  conceal? 

Can  love  bring  loss,  or  desire  devise 
Vain  visions,  or  grim  fate's  iron  heel 
Brand  both  on  brow  and  soul  its  seal. 

Till,  wretched  as  He  of  Nazareth, 

Man  loathes  the  life  he  yet  prays  to  steal 

From  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death? 


ENVOI 

Waifs  that  on  life's  tide  sink  and  rise, 
Chaff  that  each  chance  wind  winnoweth, 

Why  dread  God's  rest  that  comes,  a  prize 
From  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death? 

John  Moran 


200  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  MARSH  OF  ACHERON 

Between  the  Midnight  and  the  Morn, 

The  under-world  my  soul  espied; 
I  saw  the  shades  of  men  outworn, 

The  Heroes  fallen   in  their  pride; 

I  saw  the  marsh-lands  drear  and  wide, 
And  many  a  ghost  that  strayed  thereon ; 

"Still  must  I  roam,"  a  maiden  sighed, 
"The  sunless  marsh  of  Acheron." 

"And  is  thy  fate,  thus  hope-forlorn?" 
"Yea,  even  so,"  the  shade  replied, 

"For  one  I  wronged  in  life  hath  sworn 
In  hatred  ever  to  abide: 
The  lover  seeketh  not  the  bride. 

But  aye,  with  me,  his  heart  dreams  on. 
Asleep  in  these  cold  mists  that  hide 

The  sunless  marsh  of  Acheron. 

*'And  still  for  me  will  Lacon  mourn. 

And  still  my  pardon  be  denied: 
Ah,  never  shall  I  cross  the  bourne 

That  Dead  from  Living  doth  divide. 

Yet  I  repent  me  not!"  she  cried, 
"Nay — only  that  mine  hour  is  gone; 

One  memory  hath  glorified 
The  sunless  marsh  of  Acheron." 

Ah,  Princess!  when  My  ghost  shall  glide 
Where  never  star  nor  sunlight  shone 

See  thou  she  tarry  not  beside 
The  sunless  marsh  of  Acheron. 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


BALLADES  201 


FOOT-NOTE   FOR  IDYLS 

"Le  Sicilien  chantait — mais  c'est,  ma  foy,  bien  drole" 

— T/i€odore  Passerat. 

^Mongst  all  immortals  tardiest  is  their  tread! 
Dear  a?id  desired,  they  tread  with  dainty  feet, 
By  zchose  dear  advent  all  are  comforted 
^Mongst  mortal  menl     Thus,  thus,  thy  verses  greet 
The  Coming  Hours — those  Hours  that  from  the  heat 
And  mirth  and  friendly  girls  of  Sicily, 
Unheeding,  haled  thee  to  hell's  minstrels'-seat, 
To  edify  austere  Persephone. 

The  living  may  forget;  only  the  dead 
Are  ho  f  el  ess!  sang  blithe  Corydon,  where  beat 
Bright  waves  upon  bright  sands,  and  overhead 
Pines  murmured  benisons.     Now  is  it  sweet 
To  rhyme  of  this  in  thy  less  glad  retreat, 
Theocritus,  who  badest  that  song  be 
Immortal?  and  dost  thou  find  that  song  meet 
To  edify  austere  Persephone? 

Now  all  old  hours  and  all  old  years  are  sped 
What  profits  it  with  thee  if  men  repeat 
Or  all  or  anything  thy  live  lips  said? 
Thou  hast  forgot  Bombyca's  ivory  feet, 
The  shrill  cicalas's  chirp,  the  lambkins'  bleat, 
And  Lacon's  honied  song  on  Helyke. 
What  profits  thee  the  honied  sound  of  it 
To  edify  austere  Persephone? 

Lord  of  glad  songs,  for  us  the  winding-sheet. 
For  thee  the  funeral  pyre — built  near  the  sea, — 
Bids  singing  cease,  and  songless  lips  compete 
To  edify  austere  Persephone. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


202  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  TRUISMS 

Gold  or  silver  every  day, 

Dies  to  grey. 
There  are  knots  in  every  skein. 
Hours  of  work  and  hours  of  play 

Fade  away 
Into  one   immense   Inane. 
Shadow  and  substance,  chaff  and  grain. 

Are  as  vain 
As  the  foam  or  as  the  spray. 
Life  goes  crooning,  faint  and  fain, 

One  refrain — 
"If  it  could  be  always  May!" 

Though  the  earth  be  green  and  gay, 

Though,    they    say, 
Man  the  cup  of  heaven  may  drain ; 
Though  his  little  world  to  sway, 

He  display 
Hoard  on  hoard  of  pith  and  brain, 
Autumn  .firings  a  mist  and  rain 

That   constrain 
Him  and  his  to  know  decay, 
Where  undimmed  the  lights  that  wane 

Would  remain, 
If  it  could,  be  always  May. 

Yea,  alas,  must  turn  to  Nay, 

Flesh  to  clay. 
Chance  aiid  Time  are  ever  twain. 
Men  may  scoff  and  men  may  pray. 

But  they  pay 
Every  pleasure  with  a  pain. 
Life  may  soar  and  Fortune  deign 

To  explain 
Where  her  prizes  hide  and  stay; 
But  we  lack  the  lusty  train 

We  should  gain 
If  it  could  be  always  May. 


BALLADES  203 


ENVOY 


Time  the  pedagogue  his  cane 

Might  retain, 

But  his  charges  all  would  stray 

Truanting  in  every  lane — 

Jack  with  Jane! — 

If  it  could  be  always  May. 

W.  E.  Henley 


A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES 

O  conquerors  and  heroes,  say — 

Great  Kings  and  Captains  tell  me  this, 
Now  that  you  rest  beneath  the  clay 

What  profit  lies  in  victories? 

Do  softer  flower-roots  twine  and  kiss 
The  whiter  bones  of  Charlemain? 

Our  crownless  heads  sleep  sweet  as  his, 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain. 

All  ye  who  fell  that  summer's  day 

When  Athens  lost  Amphipolis, 
Who  blinded  by  the  briny  spray 

Fell  dead  i'  the  sea  at  Salamis, 

You  captors  of  Thyreatis, 
Who  bear  yourselves  a  heavier  chain. 

With  your  young  brother,  Bozzaris, 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain. 

And  never  Roman  armies  may 

Rouse  Hannibal  where  now  he  is. 
When  Ca2sar  makes  no  king  obey. 

And  fast  asleep  lies  Lascaris; 

Who  fears  the  Goths  or  Khan-Yenghiz? 
Not  one  of  all  the  paynim  train 

Can  taunt  us  with  Nicopolis, 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain. 


204  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

What  reck  you  Spartan  heroes,  pray, 

Of  Arcady  or  Argolis? 
When  one  barbarian  boy  to-day 

Would  fain  be  king  of  all  of  Greece. 

Brave  knights,  you  would  not  stir  I  wis, 
Altho'  the  very  Cross  were  ta'en; 

Not  Rome  Itself  doth  Csesar  miss, 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain. 

ENVOY 

O  kings,  bethink  how  little  is 

The  good  of  battles  or  the  gain — 

Death  conquers  all  things  with  his  peace 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain. 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 


A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES 

"Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain." 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not, — 

Because,  in  some  remoter  day, 
Your  sacred  dust  from  doubtful  spot 

Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away, — 

Because  you  perished, — must  men  say 
Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 

Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden?      Nay, 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

Though,  it  may  be,  above  the  plot 
That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 

No  greener  than  o'er  men  forgot 
The  unregarding  grasses  sway; — 
Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 

From  careless  bird, — though  you  remain 
Without  distinction  of  decay, — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 


BALLADES  205 

No.     For  while  yet  in  tower  or  cot 

Your  story  stirs  the  pulses'  play; 
And  men  forget  the  sordid  lot — 

The  sordid  care,  of  cities  gray; — 

While  yet,  beset  in  homelier  fray, 
They  learn  from  you  the  lesson  plain 

That  Life  may  go,  so  Honour  stay, — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

ENVOY 

Heroes  of  old!     I  humbly  lay 

The  laurel  on  your  graves  again; 
Whatever  men  have  done,  men  may, — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  ::re  not  in  vain. 

Austin  Dobson 

BALLADE  OF  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Those  far,  fair  lands  our  feet  have  trod — 

The  journey  that  was  never  done — 
The  dreams  that  followed  us  golden  shod — 

All  mad  adventure  'neath  the  sun. 
Ships  in  the  trough  of  a  waste  sea  spun — 

The  treasuries  of  outlawed  Kings — 
And  the  white  walls  of  Babylon; 

Ah!  woe  is  me  for  all  these  things! 

Your  staff  and  scrip  are  laid  aside 

And  all  my  golden  minstrelsy; 
We  sail  no  more  at  the  turn  of  the  tide 

In  a  captured  vessel  out  at  sea. 
Oh,  fallen  and  sick  and  tired  are  we! 

Sleek  sloth  about  us  twines  and  clings; 
And  where  is  the  sword  that  should  set  us  free?  — 

Ah!  woe  is  me  for  all  these  things! 

The  street  lamps  in  a  dreary  line 

Glow  through  the  dusk  with  venomous  eyes. 
We  stir  the  fire  and  pour  the  wine. 

For  we  have  done  with  enterprise. 


206  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  anxious  town  about  us  lies; 

Another  song  the  shrill  wind  sings 
Than  that  which  startled  the  morning  skie: 

Ah!  woe  is  me  for  all  these  things! 

ENVOI 


A  sudden  gust  and  a  rattle  of  rain, 

And  a  thought  which  leaps  in  the  heart  and  stings; 
Draw  the  curtains  close  round  the  window  pane! 

Ah!  woe  is  me  for  all  these  things! 

Lady  Margaret  Sackville 


THE  HOIDENS 

"Au  point  du  premier  jour,  dans  I'enfance  du  tout." 

— Antoine  Riczi. 

When  the  Morning  broke  before  us 
Came  the  wayward  Three  astraying, 
Chattering  in  babbling  chorus, 
(Obloquies  of  /Ether  saying), — 
Hoidens  that,  at  pegtop  playing, 
Flung  their  Top  where  yet  it  whirls 
Through  the  coil  of  clouds  unstaying; 
For  the  Fates  are  captious  girls. 

CLOTHO 

WAy,  ufon  that  Toy  before  us 
Insects  cluster!     Hear  them  saying. 
In  the  quaintest  shrillest  chorus: — 
'Life  affords  no  time  for  playing! 
And  for  each  that  goes  astraying, 
Featly  as  a  planet  whirls 
Drops  the  stroke  of  doom   unstaying, 
For  the  Fates  are  captious  girls.' 


BALLADES  207 


LACHESIS 

La,  I  thought  it  reeled  before  us 
Tumbling,  lurching,  stumbling,  straying. 
In  some  sort  of  mumbling  chorus! 
Now  I  see  theTn  at  their  flaying — 
/  too  see, — and  hear  them  saying: — 
'Note  with  what  fixed  aim  life  whirls 
Onward  to  set  goals  unstaying, 
For  the  Fates  are  captious  girls.' 

ATROPOS 

Sisters,  I  am  tired  of  straying. 
Catch  the  Toy  while  yet  it  whirls! 
Cleanse  the  Toy,  and  end  our  flaying! 

— For  the  Fates  are  captious  girls. 

JafTies  Branch  Cabell 

BALLADE  OF  A  GARDEN 

With  plash  of  the  light  oars  swiftly  plying, 
The  sharp  prow  furrows  the  watery  way; 

The  ripples'  reach  as  the  bank  is  dying, 

And  soft  shades  slender,  and  long  lights  play 
In  the  still  dead  heat  of  the  drowsy  day, 

As  on  I  sweep  with  the  stream  that  flows 
By  sleeping  lilies  that  lie  astray 

In  the  Garden  of  Grace  whose  name  none  knows. 

There  ever  a  whispering  wind  goes  sighing, 

Filled  with  the  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay, 
Over  the  flower  hedge  peering  and  prying. 

Wooing  the  rose  as  with  words  that  pray; 

And  the  waves  from  the  broad  bright  river  bay 
Slide  through  clear  channels  to  dream  and  doze, 

Or  rise  in  a  fountain's  silver  spray 
In  the  Garden  of  Grace  whose  name  none  knows. 


208  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  sweet  white  rose  with  the  red  rose  dying, 

Blooms  where  the  summer  follows  the  May, 
Till  the  streams  be  hid  by  the  lost  leaves  lying, 

That  autumn  shakes  where  the  lilies  lay. 

But  nov/  all  bowers  and  beds  are  gay 
And  no  rain  ruffles  the  flower  that  blows, 

And  still  on  the  water  soft  dreams  stay 
In  the  Garden  of  Grace  whose  name  none  knows. 

ENVOI 

Before  the  blue  of  the  sky  grows  grey 

And  the  frayed  leaves  fall  from  the  faded  rose. 

Love's  lips  shall  sing  what  the  day-dreams  say 

In  the  Garden  of  Grace  whose  name  none  knows. 

Arthur  Reed  Rofes 


A  BALLAD  OF  DREAMLAND 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses. 

Out  of  the  sun's  way,  hidden  apart; 
In  a  softer  bed  than  the  soft  white  snow's  is, 

Under  the  roses  I  hid  my  heart. 

Why  would  it  sleep  not?  why  should  it  start. 
When  never  a  leaf  of  the  rose-tree  stirred? 

What  made  sleep  flutter  his  wings  and  part? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

Lie  still,  I  said,  for  the  wind's  wing  closes, 

And  mild  leaves  muffle  the  keen  sun's  dart; 
Lie  still,  for  the  wind  on  the  warm  seas  dozes, 

And  the  wind  is  unquieter  yet  than  thou  art. 

Does  a  thought  in  thee  still  as  a  thorn's  wound  smart? 
Does  the  fang  still  fret  thee  of  hope  deferred? 

What  bids  the  lips  of  thy  sleep  dispart? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

The  green  land's  name  that  a  charm  encloses, 
It  never  was  writ  in  the  traveller's  chart, 


BALLADES  209 

And  sweet  on  its  trees  as  the  fruit  that  grows  is. 
It  never  was  sold  in  the  merchant's  mart. 
The  swallows  of  dreams  through  its  dim  fields  dart, 

And  sleep's  are  the  tunes  in  its  tree-tops  heard; 
No  hound's  note  wakens  the  wildwood  hart, 

Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

ENVOI 

In  the  world  of  dreams  I  have  chosen  my  part. 

To  sleep  for  a  season  and  hear  no  word 
Of  true  love's  truth  or  of  light  love's  art, 

Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

Algernon  Charles  Szvinburne 

BALLADE  OF  THE  DREAMLAND  ROSE  * 

Where  the  waves  of  burning  cloud  are  rolled 

On  the  farther  shore  of  the  sunset  sea, 
In  a  land  of  wonder  that  none  behold, 

There  blooms  a  rose  on  the  Dreamland  Tree. 

It  grows  in  the  Garden  of  Mystery 
Where  the  River  of  Slumber  softly  flows 

And  whenever  a  dream  has  come  to  be 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

In  the  heart  of  the  tree,  on  a  branch  of  gold, 

A  silvern  bird  sings  endlessly 
A  mystic  song  that  is  ages  old, 

A  mournful  song  in  a  minor  key, 

Full  of  the  glamour  of  faery; 
And  whenever  a  dreamer^s  ears  unclose 

To  the  sound  of  that  distant  melody, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Dreams  and  visions  in  hosts  untold 

Throng  around  on  the  moonlit  lea; 
Dreams  of  age  that  are  calm  and  cold, 

Dreams  of  youth  that  are  fair  and  free, 

*  Copyright  1915  by  Brian  Hooker. 


210  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Dark  with  a  lone  heart's  agony, 
Bright  with  a  hope  that  no  one  knows — 

And  whenever  a  dream  and  a  dream  agree, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

l'envoi 

Princess,  you  gaze  in  a  reverie 

Where  the  drowsy  firelight  redly  glows; 

Slowly  you  raise  your  eyes  to  me — 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Brian  Hooker, 


A  BALLADE  OF  ROSES 

To  'p660V    TO  TUV  kptJTUV. 

When  Venus  saw  Ascanius  sleep 

On  sweet  Cythera's  snow-white  roses 
His  face  like  Adon's  made  her  weep, 

And  long  to  kiss  him  where  he  dozes; 
But  fearing  to  disturb  the  boy. 

She  kissed  the  pallid  blooms  instead. 
Which  blushed  and  kept  their  blush  for  joy, 

When   Venus  kissed  white  roses  red. 

Straight  of  these  roses  she  did  reap 

Sufficient  store  of  pleasant  posies, 
And  coming  from  Cythera's  steep 

Where  every  fragrant  flower  that  grows  is, 
She  tossed  them  for  the  winds  to  toy 

And  frolic  with  till  they  were  dead. 
Heaven  taught  the  earth  a  fair  employ 

When  Venus  kissed  white  roses  red. 

For  each  red  rose  the  symbol  deep 
In   its  sad,  happy  heart  encloses 

Of  kisses  making  love's  heart  leap. 

And  every  summer  wind  that  blows  is 


BALLADES  211 

A  prayer  that  ladies  be  not  coy 

Of  kisses  ere  brief  life  be  sped. 
There  gleamed  more  gold  in  earth's  alloy 

When  Venus  kissed  white  roses  red. 

ENVOY 

All  lovers  true  since  windy  Troy 

Flamed  for  a  woman's  golden  head, 
You  gained  surcease  from  life's  annoy 

When  Venus  kissed  white  roses  red. 

Justin  Huniley  McCarthy 

A  BALLADE  OF  IRRESOLUTION 

Isolde,  in  the  story  old, 

When  Ireland's  coast  the  vessel  nears. 

And  Death  were  fairer  to  behold. 

To  Tristan  gives  "the  cup  that  clears." 

Straight  to  their  fate  the  helmsman  steers: 

Unknowing,  each  the  potion  sips.   .   .  . 

Comes  echoing  through  the  ghostly  years 

"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 

Ah,  that  like  Tristan  I  were  bold! 

My  soul  into  the  future  peers. 

And  passion  flags,  and  heart  grows  cold, 

And  sicklied  resolution  veers. 

I  see  the  Sister  of  the  Shears 

Who  sits  fore'er  and  snips,  and  snips.   .  .  . 

Still   falls  upon   my  inward  ears, 

"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 

Hero  of  lovers,  largely  soul'd! 

Imagination  thee  enspheres 

With  song-enchanted  wood  and  wold 

And  casements   fronting  magic  meres. 

Tristan,  thy  large  example  cheers 

The  faint  of  heart;  thy  story  grips! — 

My  soul  again  that  echo  hears, 

"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 


212  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

l'envoi 

Sweet  sorceress,  resolve  my  fears! 
He  stakes  all  who  Elysium  clips. 
What  tho'  the  fruit  be  tares  and  tears! — 
Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips! 

Bert  Lesion   Taylor 

BALLADE  OF  MY  LADY'S  BEAUTY* 

Squire  Adam  had  two  wives,  they  say, 

Two  wives  had  he,  for  his  delight; 
He  kissed  and  clypt  them  all  the  day, 

And  clypt  and  kissed  them  all  the  night. 

Now  Eve  like  ocean  foam  was  white, 
And  Lillith,  roses  dipped  in  wine, 

But  though  they  were  a  goodly  sight 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

To  Venus  some  folk  tribute  pay. 

And  Queen  of  Beauty  she  is  hight; 
And  Sainte  Marie  the  world  doth  sway 

In  cerule  napery  bedight. 

My  wonderment  these  twain  invite, 
Their  comeliness  it  is  divine; 

And  yet  I  say  in  their  despite, 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

Dame  Helen  caused  a  grievous  fray, 

For  love  of  her  brave  men  did  fight; 
The  eyes  of  her  made  sages  fey 

And  put  their  hearts  in  woful  plight; 

To  her  no  rhymes  will  I  indite. 
For  her  no  garlands  will  I  twine, 

Though  she  be  made  of  flowers  and  light, 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

*  From  Poetns,  Essays  and  Letters  by  Joyce  Kilmer.     Copy- 
right 1914,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 


BALLADES  213 


L,  ENVOI 


Prince  Eros,  Lord  of  lovely  might, 
Who  on  Olympus  dost  recline. 

Do   I   not  tell   the  truth  aright? 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

Joyce  Kilmer 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  NICOLETE 

All  bathed  in  pearl  and  amber  light 

She  rose  to  fling  the  lattice  wide, 
And  leaned  into  the  fragrant  night, 

Where  brown   birds  sang  of  summertide 

('Twas  Love's  own  voice  that  called  and  cried) 
*Ah,  Sweet!'  she  said,  'I'll  seek  thee  yet. 

Though  thorniest  pathways  should  betide 
The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete.' 

They  slept,  who  would  have  stayed  her  flight 

(Full  fain  were  they  the  maid  had  died!) 
She  dropped  adown  her  prison's  height 

On  strands  of  linen  featly  tied. 

And  so  she  passed  the  garden-side, 
With  loose-leaved  roses  sweetly  set, 

And  dainty  daisies,  dark  beside 
The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete! 

Her  lover  lay  in  evil  plight 

(So  many  lovers  yet  abide!) 
I  would  my  tongue  could  praise  aright 

Her  name,  that  should  be  glorified. 

Those  lovers  now,  whom   foes  divide, 
A  little  weep, — and  soon   forget. 

How  far  from  these  faint  lovers  glide 
The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete. 

My  Princess,  doff"  thy  frozen  pride. 
Nor  scorn  to  pay  Love's  golden  debt; 


214  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Through  his  dim  woodland  take  for  guide 
The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete. 

Grahaiii  R.   Tomson 

'THE  LOVES  OF  EVERY  DAY'* 

He  thinks  not  deep  who  hears  the  strain 

Of  gentle-hearted  Nicolette 
And  fears  that  nevermore  again 

To  such  a  tune  will  love  be  set 
Of  daisies  and  the  foot  that  let 

Them  look  but  shadows  on  the  way 
To  where  the  olden  lovers  met; — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 

The  heart  that  makes  of  binding  chain 

A  linked  song  for  Nicolette, 
The  heart  that  ventures  perilous  pain, 

That  needs  no  counsel,  heeds  no  threat, 
And  hearts  that  hear  and  answer  yet 

The  blessing  of  the  holy  ray 
Of  evening  from  her  minaret, — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 

Not  only  shall  the  story  gain 

For  Aucassin  and  Nicolette 
Woods  green  with  an  immortal  rain ; 

But  long  as  human  eyes  go  wet 
For  lovers,  or  till  time  forget 

That  we  can  love  as  well  as  they 
In   triumph   over   mortal    fret, — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 

ENVOY 

Poet,  yours  is  a  vain  regret 

That  Aucassin  has  gone  his  way! 
We  have  him  still  with  Nicolette; — 
These  are   the  loves  of  every  day. 

Witter  Banner 
*  From    Young   Harvard,   by   Witter    Bynner.      Copyright   by 
Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Publisher. 


BALLADES  215 

A  BALLADE  OF  OLD  SWEETHEARTS 
(To  M.  C.) 

Who  is  it  that  weeps  for  the  last  year's  flowers 

When  the  wood  is  aflame  with  the  fires  of  spring, 
And  we  hear  her  voice  in  the  lilac  bowers 

As  she  croons  the  runes  of  the  blossoming? 

For  the  same  old  blooms  do  the  new  years  bring. 
But  not  to  our  lives  do  the  years  come  so, 

New  lips  must  kiss  «nd  new  bosoms  cling. — 
Ah!    lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 


Ah!  me,  for  a  breath  of  those  morning  hours 
When  Alice  and  I  went  awandering 

Through  the  shining  fields,  and  it  still  was  ours 
To  kiss  and  to  feel  we  were  shuddering — 
Ah!   me,  when  a  kiss  was  a  holy  thing. — 

How  sweet  were  a  smile  from  Maud,  and  oh! 
With  Phyllis  once  more  to  be  whispering. — 

Ah!  lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 


But  it  cannot  be  that  old  Time  devours 

Such  loves  as  was  Annie's  and  mine  we  sing, 
And  surely  beneficent  heavenly  powers 

Save  Muriel's  beauty  from  perishing; 

And  if  in  some  golden  evening 
To  a  quaint  old  garden  I  chance  to  go, 

Shall  Marion  no  more  by  the  wicket  sing?  — 
Ah!   lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 


In  these  lives  of  ours  do  the  new  years  bring 
Old  loves  as  old  flowers  again  to  blow? 

Or  do  new  lips  kiss  and  new  bosoms  cling?  — 
Ah!  lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


216  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


A  BALLADE  OF  CALYPSO 

The  loud  black  flight  of  the  storm  diverges 

Over  a  spot  in  the  loud  mouthed  main, 
Where,  crowned  with  summer  and  sun,  emerges 

An   isle  unbeaten   of  wind  or  rain. 

And  here,  of  its  sweet  queen  grown  full  fain. 
By  whose  kisses  the  whole  broad  earth  seems  poor, 

Tarries  the  wave-worn  prince,  Troy's  bane, 
In  the  green  Ogygian  Isle  secure. 


To  her  voice  our  sweetest  songs  are  dirges. 

She  gives  him  all  things,  counting  it  gain. 
Ringed  with  the  rocks  and  ancient  surges. 

How  could  Fate  dissever  these  twain? 

But  him  no  loves  nor  delights  retain; 
New  knowledge,  new  lands,  new  loves  allure; 

Forgotten   the  perils,  and   toils,  and  pain. 
In  the  green  Ogygian  Isle  secure. 


So  he  spurns  her  kisses  and  gifts,  and  urges 

His  weak  skiff  over  the  wind-vext  plain. 
Till  the  grey  of  the  sky  in  the  grey  sea  merges, 

And  nights  reel  round,  and  waver  and  wane. 

He  sits  once  more  in  his  own  domain. 
No  more  the  remote  sea-walls  immure. — 

But  ah,  for  the  love  he  shall  clasp  not  again 
In  the  green  Ogygian  Isle  secure. 


l'envoi 


Princes,  and  ye  whose  delights  remain, 

To  the  one  good  gift  of  the  gods  hold  sure, 

Lest  ye,  too,  mourn,  in  vain,  in  vain, 
Your  green  Ogygian  Isle  secure. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


BALLADES  217 


BALLADE  OF  THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF 

BABYLON 

The  fierce  queen  wearied,  and  she  smote  her  hands: 
"Summon  my  lord,  the  King,"  she  spake  and  sighed, 

"I  sicken  of  these  steaming  shallow  lands!" 
Nebuchadnezzar  stood  there  by  her  side. 
Suppliant.     She  turned  upon  him,  eagle-eyed; 

"O  King,  would  thou  and  Babylon  ne'er  had  been! 
I  die  for  pines  and  storms."     "Amytis,  bride. 

There  shall  be  hanging  gardens  for  my  queen." 

"O  for  Assyria,  where  each  mountain  stands, 

With  pine-trees  to  the  peak,  and  the  great  stride 

Of  the  north  wind,  voiced  as  a  god's  commands. 
Shakes  forests  into  music  far  and  wide. 
Iron  and  granite  song;  and  horsemen  ride 

By  foam  of  torrents,  laughing,  lances  keen — 

But  I  mid  ooze  and  baking  bricks  must  bide.   .   .   ." 

"There  shall  be  hanging  gardens  for  my  queen." 

Night  fell,  and  morning  rose  with  crimson  bands, 

About  her  couch  the  tiring  maidens  glide. 
And  one  that  wove  her  hair  in  shining  strands 

Spake  softly:  "Vouch,  great  queen,  to  gaze  outside, 

Beyond  the  curtains" — and  Amytis  cried. 
And  laughed  and  wept  for  what  her  eyes  had  seen — 

Assyria  at  her  window  magnified!  — 
"There  shall  be  hanging  gardens  for  my  queen." 

ENVOI 

"Queen,"  spake  the  King,  "is  thy  heart  satisfied? 

Unnumbered  slaves  and  Night  have  wrought  this  scene- 
The  rocks  and  pines  of  thy  Assyrian  pride: 

There  shall  be  hanging  gardens  for  my  queen." 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


218  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  BALLADE  OF  LOVELACE 

My  days  for  singing  and  loving  are  over 

And  stark  1  lie  in  my  narrow  bed, 
I  care  not  at  all  if  roses  cover 

Or  if  above  me  the  snow  is  spread; 

I  am  weary  of  dreaming  of  my  sweet  dead — 
Vera  and  Lily  and  Annie  and  May, 
And  my  soul  is  set  on  the  present  fray, 

Its  piercing  kisses  and  subtle  snares; 
So  gallants  are  conquered,  ah  wellaway, 

My  love  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  theirs. 

O  happy  moths  that  now  flit  and  hover 

From  the  blossom  of  white  to  the  blossom  of  red, 
Take  heed,  for  I  was  a  lordly  lover 

Till  the  little  day  of  my  life  had  sped; 

As  straight  as  a  pine  tree,  a  golden  head, 
And  eyes  as  blue  as  an  austral  bay. 
Ladies,  when  loosing  your  satin  array. 

Reflect,  in  my  years  had  you  lived,  my  prayers 
Might  have  won  you  from  weakly  lovers  away. 

My  love  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  theirs. 

Through  the  song  of  the  thrush  and  the  pipe  of  the  plover 

Sweet  voices  come  down  through  the  binding  lead; 
O  queens  that  every  age  must  discover 

For  men,  that  Man's  delight  may  be  fed; 

Oh,  sister  queens  to  the  queens  I  wed 
For  the  space  of  a  year,  a  month,  a  day. 
No  thirst  but  mine  could  your  thirst  allay; 

And  oh,  for  an  hour  of  life,  my  dears. 
To  kiss  you,  to  laugh  at  your  lovers'  dismay, — 

My  love  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  theirs. 

ENVOI 

Prince  was  I  ever  of  festival  gay. 

And  time  never  silvered  my  locks  with  grey; 


BALLADES  219 

The  love  of  your  lovers  is  as  hope  that  despairs. 
So  think  of  me  sometimes,  dear  ladies,  I  pray, 
My  love  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  theirs. 

George  Moore 


BALLADE  OF  WOMEN  I  LOVE* 

Prudence  Mears  hath  an  old  blue  plate 

Hid  away  in  an  oaken  chest, 
And  a  Franklin  platter  of  ancient  date 

Beareth  Amandy  Baker's  crest; 
What  times  soever  I've  been  their  guest, 

Says  I  to  myself  in  an  undertone: 
"Of  womenfolk,  it  must  be  confessed. 

These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 


Well,  again,  in  the  Nutmeg  State, 

Dorothy  Pratt   is  richly  blest 
With  a  relic  of  art  and  a  land  effete — 

A  pitcher  of  glass  that's  cut,  not  pressed. 
And  a  Washington  teapot  is  possessed 

Down  in  Pelham  by  Marthy  Stone — 
Think  ye  now  that  I  say  in  jest 

"These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone"? 


Were  Hepsy  Higgins  inclined  to  mate, 

Or  Dorcas  Eastman  prone  to  invest 
In  Cupid's  bonds,  they  could  find  their  fate 

In  the  bootless  bard  of  Crockery  Quest. 
For  they've  heaps  of  trumpery — so  have  the  rest 

Of  those  spinsters  whose  ware  I'd  like  to  own; 
You  can  see  why  I  say  with  such  certain  zest, 

"These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 

*  From  Songs  and  Other  Verse  by  Eugene  Field.     Copyright 
1911   by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


220  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

ENVOY 

Prince,  show  me  the  quickest  way  and  best 
To  gain  the  subject  of  my  moan; 

We've  neither  spinsters  nor  relics  out  West — 
These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone. 

Eugene  Field 


BALLADE  OF  LADIES'  NAMES 

Brown's  for  Lalage,  Jones  for  Lelia, 

Robinson's  bosom  for  Beatrice  glows, 
Smith  is  a  Hamlet  before  Ophelia. 

The  glamour  stays  if  the  reason  goes! 

Every  lover  the  years  disclose 
Is  of  a  beautiful   name  made  free. 

One  befriends,  and  all  others  are  foes. 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 


Sentiment  hallows  the  vowels  of  Delia; 

Sweet  simplicity  breathes  from  Rose; 
Courtly  memories  glitter  in  Celia; 

Rosalind  savours  of  quips  and  hose, 

Araminta  of  wits  and  beaux, 
Prue  of  puddings,  and  Coralie 

All  of  sawdust  and  spangled  shows; 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 


Fie  upon  Caroline,  Madge,  Amelia — 
These  I  reckon  the  essence  of  prose!  — 

Cavalier  Katharine,  cold  Cornelia, 
Portia's  masterful  Roman  nose, 
Maud's  magnificence,  Totty's  toes, 

Poll  and  Bet  with  their  twang  of  the  sea, 
Nell's  impertinence,  Pamela's  woes! 

Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 


BALLADES  221 


ENVOY 


Ruth  like  a  gillyflower  smells  and  blows, 

Sylvia  prattles  of  Arcadee, 
Sybil  mystifies,  Connie  crows, 

Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me! 

W.  E.  Henley 


BALLADE  OF  THE  GIRTON  GIRL 

She  has  just  "put  her  gown  on"  at  Girton, 

She  is  learned  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
But  lawn  tennis  she  plays  with  a  skirt  on 

That  the  prudish  remark  with  a  shriek. 
In  her  accents,  perhaps,  she  is  weak 

(Ladies  are,  one  observes  with  a  sigh), 
But  in  Algebra — there  she's  unique. 

But  her  forte's  to  evaluate  n. 


She  can  talk  about  putting  a  "spirt  on" 

(I  admit,  an  unmaidenly  freak). 
And  she  dearly  delighteth  to  flirt  on 

A  punt  in  some  shadowy  creek; 
Should  her  bark,  by  mischance,  spring  a  leak, 

She  can  swim  as  a  swallow  can  fly; 
She  can  fence,  she  can  put  with  a  cleek. 

But  her  forte's  to  evaluate  n. 


She  has  lectured  on  Scopas  and  Myrton, 

Coins,  vases,  mosaics,  the  antique. 
Old  tiles  with  the  secular  dirt  on, 

Old  marbles  with  noses  to  seek. 
And  her  Cobet  she  quotes  by  the  week, 

And  she's  written  on  kev  and  on  ko.), 
And  her  service  is  swift  and  oblique. 

But  her  forte's  to  evaluate  tt. 


222  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

ENVOY 

Princess,  like  a  rose  is  her  cheek, 

And  her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the  sky, 

And  I'd  speak,  had  I  courage  to  speak. 
But — her  forte's  to  evaluate tt. 

Andrew  Lang 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 

She's  had  a  Vassar  education. 

And  points  with  pride  to  her  degrees; 
She's  studied  household  decoration; 

She  knows  a  dado  from  a  frieze, 

And  tells  Corots  from  Boldonis; 
A  Jacquemart  etching,  or  a  Haden, 

A  Whistler,  too,  perchance  might  please 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


She  does  not  care  for  meditation; 

Within  her  bonnet  are  no  bees; 
She  has  a  gentle  animation, 

She  joins  in  singing  simple  glees. 

She   tries  no   trills,   no   rivalries 
With  Lucca  (now  Baronin  Raden), 

With  Nilsson  or  with  Gerster;  she's 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


I'm  blessed  above  the  whole  creation. 
Far,  far,  above  all  other  he's; 

I  ask  you  for  congratulation 
On  this  the  best  of  jubilees: 
I  go  with  her  across  the  seas 

Unto  what  Poe  would  call  an  Aiden, — 
I  hope  no  serpent's  there  to  tease 

A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


BALLADES  223 


ENVOY 


Princes,  to  you  the  western  breeze 
Bears  many  a  ship  and  heavy  laden, 

What  is  the  best  we  send  in  these? 

A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 

Brander  Matthews 


A  BALLADE  OF  BRIDES 

For  brides  who  grace  these  passing  days, 

The  poets  lyric  garlands  twine; 
For  them  the  twittering  song  of  praise 

Resounds  with  many  a  fulsome  line. 

And  unproved  worth,  as  half  divine. 
Is  glorified  in  tinkling  tunes. 

But  worthier  dames  shall  bless  our  wine- 
We'll  toast  the  brides  of  other  Junes! 


What  though  a  thoughtless  public  pays 

Its  homage  at  young  Beauty's  shrine. 
And  wreathes  smooth  brows  with  orange  sprays, 

With  roses  and  with  eglantine, 

Youth's  cheeks  that  glow  and  eyes  that  shine 
Are  not  the  most  enduring  boons. 

O!  we  who've  seen  such  things  decline, 
We'll  toast  the  brides  of  other  Junes! 


Though  flowery  wreaths  and  poets'  lays 
To  grace  the  new-made  bride  combine, 

O!    let  us  rather  twine  the  bays 

For  tried  and  true  ones,  thine  and  mine, 
Who  share  whate'er  the  fates  design 

To  bless  or  blight  our  nights  and  noons; 

Good  comrades  still  through  rain  or  shine — 

We'll  toast  the  brides  of  other  Junes! 


224  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


L  ENVOI 


Old  Friend!  whose  bride  of  Auld  Lang  Syne 
Still  fills  thy  life  with  honeymoons, 

Thy  glass  to  mine,  my  glass  to  thine — 
We'll  toast  the  brides  of  other  Junes! 

Thomas  A.  Daly 


BALLADE  OF  A  BACKSLIDER 

Darling,  I  am  growing  old! 

Yet,  before  I  pass  away, 
Shall   these   dimming   eyes  behold 

Woman  hold  her  equal  sway; 

I  have  labored  for  it — yea, 
I  have  racked  this  bulging  dome 

To  confute  the  men  who  say 
"Woman's  place  is  in  the  Home." 

Darling,  I  am  growing  cold 

Toward  the  suffrage  hip-hooray; 
Silver  threads  among  the  gold 

Seem  my  fervor  to  allay. 

Just  as  dawns  the  longed-for  day. 
Clear  from  Jacksonville  to  Nome, 

I  am  moved  to  murmur,  "Nay, 
Woman's  place  is  in  the  Home!" 

Darling,  I  am  growing  bold 

As  my  hair  is  growing  gray! 
You  may  sneer,  or  you  may  scold, 

But  I  fear  no  female  fray! 

When  the  ladies  got  too  gay 
In  the  days  of  ancient  Rome, 

Then  began  Rome's  swift  decay- 
Woman's  place  is  in  the  Home. 


BALLADES  225 

(Princess,    privately    1    pray 

You'll  excuse  this  little  pome; 
Just  in  public,  let  me  bray — 

"Woman's  Place  is  in  the  Home!") 

Edwin  Meade-  Robinson 

BALLADE   TO  THE   WOMEN 

The  poets,  extolling  the  graces 

Of  sweet  femininity,  pay 
Particular  court,   in   most   cases, 

To  Phyllis  or  Phoebe  or  Fay. 

"A  toast  to  the  ladies!"  they  say — 
As  "ladies"  they  always  address  them — 

And  bid  us  bow  down  to  them.     Nay! 
We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

Though  light-o'-loves,  frail  as  the  laces. 

And  satins  in  which  they  array 
The  charms  of  their  forms  and  their  faces, 

Are  "ladies"  for  their  little  day. 

The  feet  of  such  idols  are  clay. 
Our  wives,  when  we  come  to  possess  them, 

Must   loom  to  us  larger  than   they. 
We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

Sweet  creatures  who  make  the  home-places 

As   cheerful   and   bright  as  they  may, 
Whose  feminine  beauty  embraces 

A  heart  to   illumine   the  way. 

Though  skies  may  be  ever  so  gray; 
Good  mothers,  whose  children  caress  them 

And  hail  them  as  chums  at  their  play — 
We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

ENVOY 

O!    Queen,  teach  the  "ladies,"  we  pray. 
Whenever  vain   notions  oppress  them. 

Though  idly  their  charms  we  survey. 

We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

Thomas  A.  Daly 


226  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  LITTLE  THINGS  THAT  COUNT 

The   furrow's  long  behind  my  plow — 

My  field  is  strewn  with  stones  of  care, 
And  trouble  gathers  thick  enow 

As  years  add  silver  to  my  hair. 

Could  I  an  easier  path  prepare 
For  baby  feet  that  start  to  mount?  — 

Save  them  a  bit  of  wear  and  tear, — 
And  show  the  little  things  that  count? 

I   see  a  tiny  maiden  bow 

O'er  slate  and  pencil,  in  her  chair: 
A  little  pucker  on  her  brow, 

A  little   tousle   in  her  hair. 

And  one  wee  tear  has  fallen  where 
The  crooked  figures  grin  and  flount; 

My  heart  goes  reaching  to  her  there — 
I  love  the  little  things  that  count! 

Arithmetic  is  such  a  slough — 

A  pilgrim's  swamp  of  dull  despair, 
But  Discipline  will   not  allow 

My  hand  to  point  a  thoro'fare. 

Harsh  figures  face  us  everywhere, 
O'erwhelming  in  their  vast  amount; 

Must  she  so  soon  their  burden  bear?  — 
I  love  the  little  things  that  count! 

Stern   Teacher,   must  she  ever   fare 
Alone  to  Learning's  chilly  fount? 

There  is  so  much  I  long  to  share — 
I  love  the  Little  Things  That  Count! 

Surges  Johnson 


BALLADES  227 


A   BALLADE  OF  EVOLUTION 

In  the  mud  of  the  Cambrian  main 

Did  our  earliest  ancestor  dive: 
From  a  shapeless  albuminous  grain 

We  mortals  our  being  derive. 

He  could  split  himself  up  into  five, 
Or  roll  himself  round  like  a  ball; 

For  the  fittest  will  always  survive, 
While  the  weakliest  go  to  the  wall. 


As  an  active  ascidian  again 

Fresh  forms  he  began  to  contrive. 
Till  he  grew  to  a  fish  with  a  brain, 

And  brought  forth  a  mammal  alive. 

With  his  rivals  he  next  had  to  strive, 
To  woo  him  a  mate  and  a  thrall; 

So  the  handsomest  managed  to  wive 
While  the  ugliest  went  to  the  wall. 


At  length  as  an  ape  he  was  fain 

The  nuts  of  the  forest  to  rive; 
Till  he  took  to  the  low-lying  plain, 

And  proceeded  his  fellow  to  knive. 

Thus  did  cannibal  men  first  arrive. 
One  another  to  swallow  and  maul; 

And  the  strongest  continued  to  thrive. 
While  the  weakliest  went  to  the  wall. 


ENVOY 

Prince,  in  our  civilised  hive 

Now  money's  the  measure  of  all; 

And  the  wealthy  in  coaches  can  drive 
While  the  needier  go  to  the  wall. 

Grant  Allen 


228  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

BALLADE  OF  PRIMITIVE  MAN  * 
(To   J.   A.   Farrer) 

He  lived  in  a  cave  by  the  seas, 

He  lived  upon  oysters  and  foes, 
But  his  list  of  forbidden  degrees 

An  extensive  morality  shows  5 

Geological    evidence    goes 
To  prove  he  had  never  a  pan. 

But  he  shaved  with  a  shell  when  he  chose, 
'Twas  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man! 

He  worshipp'd  the  rain  and  the  breeze, 

He  worshipped  the  river  that  flows. 
And  the  Dawn,  and  the  Moon,  and  the  trees, 

And  bogies,  and  serpents,  and  crows; 

He  buried  his  dead  with  their  toes 
Tucked  up,  an  original  plan. 

Till  their  knees  came  right  under  their  nose, 
'Twas  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man! 

His  communal   wives,   at  his  ease. 

He  would  curb  with  occasional  blows; 

Or  his  State  had  a  queen,  like  the  bees 
(As  another  philosopher  trows) : 
When  he  spoke,  it  was  never  in  prose. 

But  he  sang  in  a  strain  that  would  scan, 

For    (to   doubt   it,   perchance,   were   morose) 

'Twas  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man! 

ENVOY 

Max,  proudly  your  Aryans  pose. 
But  their   rigs  they   undoubtedly  ran, 

For,  as  every  Darwinian   knows, 
'Twas  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man! 

Andrew  Lang 

*  From   Ballades  and   Verses   Vain  by  Andrew  Lang.     Copy- 
right  1884,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


BALLADES  229 


BALLADE   OF  CAUTION 

You  that  climb  the  trails  of  air 

Far  above  the  ranges  dim 
Toward  the  starry  pastures,  where, 

Wonder-tyed,  the  cherubim 

Watch  your  sunlit  chariot  swim, 
Tracing   spirals   involute 

Clear  to  Heaven's  crystal  rim — 
Don't  forget  the  parachute! 

Icarus,  the  books  declare, 

Full  of  youthful  fire  and  vim, 
Soared  too  high  with  little  care; 

Down  he  fell,  the  stripling  slim. 

Blue  ^gean's  azure  brim 
Hides  his  beauty,  cold  and  mute. 

Shun  the  fate  that  conquered  him — 
Don't  forget  the  parachute! 


Oh,  the  vaunting  souls  that  dare 

Heights  to  daunt  the  seraphim! 
Oh,   their  fall  to  black  Despair! 

Oh,  the  issue,  bleak  and  grim! 

Though  your  wings  be  staunch  and  trim. 
Strong  your  heart  for  high  pursuit. 

Still,  for  love  of  life  and  limb. 
Don't  forget  the  parachute! 


ENVOI 

Prince  (a  time-worn  pseudonym 
Dear  to  bards  of  good  repute), 

Be  your  flight  of  zeal  or  whim. 
Don't  forget  the  parachute! 

Arthur  Guiterman 


230  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


STORY  OF  THE  FLOWERY  KINGDOM 

Fair  Sou-Chong-Tee,  by  a  shimmering  brook 
Where  ghost-like  lilies  loomed  tall  and  straight, 
Met  young  Too-Hi,  in  a  moonlit  nook, 
Where  they  cooed  and  kissed  till  the  hour  was  late: 
Then,  with  lanterns,  a  mandarin  passed  in  state, 
Named  Hoo-Hung-Hoo  of  the  Golden  Band, 
Who  had  wooed  the  maiden  to  be  Ais  mate — 
For  these  things  occur  in  the  Flowery  Land. 

Now,  Hoo-Hung-Hoo  had  written  a  book, 
In  seven  volumes  to  celebrate 
The  death  of  the  Emperor's  thirteenth  cook: 
So,  being  a  person  whose  power  was  great, 
He  ordered  a  Herald  to  indicate 
He  would  blind  Too-Hi  with  a  red-hot  brand 
And  marry  Sou-Chong  at  a  quarter-past  eight, — 
For  these  things  occur  in  the  Flowery  Land. 

And  the  brand  was  hot,  and  the  lovers  shook 
In  their  several  shoes,  when  by  lucky  fate 
A  Dragon  came,  with  his  tail  in  a  crook,  — 
A  Dragon  out  of  a  Nankeen  Plate, — 
And  gobbled  the  hard-hearted  potentate 
And  all  of  his  servants,  and  snorted,  and 
Passed  on  at  a  super-cyclonic  rate, — 
For  these  things  occur  in  the  Flowery  Land. 

The  lovers  were  wed  at  an  early  date, 
And  lived  for  the  future,  I  understand. 
In  one  continuous  tete  a  tete, — 
For  these  things  occur  ...  in  the  Flowery  Land. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


BALLADES  231 


BALLAD:  BEFORE  MY  BOOKSHELVES 

Now  that  the  swallow  again  we  see, 

Now  daisy-burthened  is  every  mead 
And  burthened  the  air  with  bird-minstrelsy — 

What  book  shall  I  take  in  my  nook  to  read? 

Will  a  huge  folio  serve  my  need 
From  yonder  musty  and  slumberous  row? 

All  the  May-morn  on  Aim  shall  I  feed — 
Or  the  rose-bright  tales  of  Boccaccio? 


Stay!    if  I   took  him,  asleep  should  I  be 

In  a  moment,  and  even  the  birds  would  speed 
To  their  nests,  quick-stinting  their  melody 

As  though,  all-timeless,  dark  night  were  freed. 

Pass  on!     Yon  history!     Do  you  plead 
For  a  hearing?      Mighty  of  voice,  I  trow! 

Shall  I  thrive  on  some  old-world  blood-bright  deed, 
Or  the  rose-bright  tales  of  Boccaccio? 


The  sweet  heaven-showers  for  the  daisied  lea 
Are  better  than  showers  from  heroes  that  bleed; 

And  the  shriek  of  the  clarion  would  slay  the  glee 
Of  the  birds  that  love  but  the  shepherd's  reed — 
Ah!  and  the  lute  of  the  singer!     Have  heed! 

Here  are  the  poets,  with  leaves  that  glow 
Lovelier  than  lindens':  take  this,  indeed?  — 

Or  the  rose-bright  tales  of  Boccaccio! 


ENVOI 

Birds,  I  am  coming.     Do  you  proceed 
With  your  lyrics;  a  lovelier  song  I  know. 

Look,  here  is  a  Sunnburne,  and  here — base  greed! 
Are  the  rose-bright  tales  of  Boccaccio! 

Nelso?t  Rich  Tyerman 


232  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


WITH  FITZGERALD'S  "OMAR  KHAYYAM" 

Eight  centuries  unheeded  by  the  West! 

Now  loved  within  our  hearts;  whose  daily  strait 
Is  still  to  war  with  wavering  unrest, 

To  ask  in  vain,  for  aye  importunate, 

The  ceaseless  "why?"  whereof  we  ever  wait 
The  answering  "because,"  which  ringing  true 

Would  solve  the  mystery  of  Life  and  Fate. 
Omar!  the  peace  you  sought  we  find  in  you. 

The  fabled  Paradise  wherein  the  blest 

Lie  lotus-eating,  lulled   in   languorous  state, 
Measured  by  later  reasonable  test 

Seems  but  at  best  a  doubtful  opiate. 

Life  is  but  labour,  always  to  create 
New  aims  to  strive  for,  and  new  things  to  do. 

Could  Heaven  itself  the  stress  of  life  abate? 
Omar!   the  peace  you  sought  we  find  in  you. 

Incurious,  we  cease  the  hopeless  quest. 
For   nobler   he   who    thus   can    subjugate 

His  reckless  will,  than  he  with  fears  opprest. 
Who  cries  amid  his  doubts,  "Allah  is  great!" 
"EacA  his  own  heaven  or  hellV  why  hesitate? 

To-day   is  ours,   to-morrow  keeps  the   clue 
To  the  great  secret,   still   inviolate. 

Omar!  the  peace  you  sought  we  find  in  you. 

Shall  Fate  or  we  cry  to  Life's  game,  "check-mate"! 

Nay,  wise  men  draw  it,  fools  defeat  pursue; 
Unconquered,  though  unconquering,  as  we  wait. 

Omar!  the  peace  you  sought  we  find  in  you. 

Gleeson  White 


BALLADES  233 


BALLADE  OF  THE  CAXTON  HEAD 

News!     Good  News!    at  the  old  year's  end: 

Lovers  of  learning,  come  buy,  come  buy! 
Now  to  old  Holborn  let  bookmen  wend. 

Though  the  town  be  grimy,  and  grim  the  sky. 
News!      Good  News!    is  our  Christmas  cry; 

For  our  feast  of  reason  is  richly  spread, 
And  hungry  bookmen  may  turn  and  try 

The  famous  Sign  of  the  Caxton  Head. 


Let  moralists  talk  of  the  lifelong  friend; 

But  books  are  the  safest  of  friends,  say  l! 
The  best  of  good  fellows  will  oft  oifend; 

But  books  can  never  do  wrong:  for  why? 
To  their  lover's  ear,  and  their  lover's  eye, 

They  are  ever  the  same  as  in  dear  years  fled; 
And  the  choicest  haunt,  till  you  bid  them  fly, 

The  famous  Sign  of  the  Caxton  Head. 

In  one  true  fellowship  see  them  blend! 

The   delicate  pages  of   Italy; 
Foulis  and    Baskerville,  bad   to   lend; 

And  the  strong  black  letter  of  Germany: 
Here  rare  French  wonders  of  beauty  lie, 

Wrought  by  the  daintiest  of  hands  long  dead: 
All  these  are  waiting,  till  you  draw  nigh 

The  famous  Sign  of  the  Caxton  Head. 


l'envoi 


Bookmen!   whose  pleasures  can  never  die, 
While  books  are  written,  and  books  are  read: 

For  the  honour  of  Caxton,  pass  not  by 
The  famous  Sign  of  the  Caxton  Head. 

Lionel  Johnsoti 


234  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  UNATTAINABLE 

The  Books  I  cannot  hope  to  buy, 

Their  phantoms  round  me  waltz  and  wheel, 

They  pass  before  the  dreaming  eye, 

Ere  Sleep  the  dreaming  eye  can  seal. 

A  kind  of  literary  reel 

They  dance;  but  fair  the  bindings  shine. 

Prose  cannot  tell  them  what  I  feel, — 

The  Books  that  never  can  be  mine! 


There  frisk  Editions  rare  and  shy, 
Morocco  clad  from  head  to  heel; 
Shakspearian  quartos;  Comedy 
As  first  she  flashed  from  Richard  Steele; 
And  quaint  Defoe  on  Mrs.  Veal; 
And,  lord  of  landing  net  and  line. 
Old  Izaak  with  his  fishing  creel, — 
The  Books  that  never  can  be  mine! 


Incunables!    for  you   I   sigh. 
Black  letter,  at  thy  founts  I  kneel, 
Old  tales  of  Perrault's  nursery, 
For  you  I'd  go  without  a  meal! 
For  Books  wherein  did  Aldus  deal 
And  rare  Galiot  du  Pre  I  pine. 
The  watches  of  the  night  reveal 
The  Books  that  never  can  be  mine! 


•  ENVOY 

Prince,  hear  a  hopeless  Bard's  appeal; 
Reverse  the  rules  of  Mine  and  Thine; 
Make  it  legitimate  to  steal 
The  Books  that  never  can  be  mine! 

Andrew  Lang 


BALLADES  23  5 


BALLADE  OF  BOOKS  UNBOUGHT 

Some  of  the  books  that  1  would  prize 

I'll  buy  (within  ten  years  or  so)  — 
J.  Conrad's  "Under  Western  Eyes," 

A  good  Montaigne  (by  Florio). 

Old  tomes  like  Holinshed  or  Stowe 
Would  gloriously  ballast  me, 

And  when  financial  conduits  flow, 
Gissing's  "By  the  Ionian  Sea." 

John  Morley's  book  "On  Compromise," 

A  decent  set  of  E.  A.  Poe; 
Bacon,  perhaps,  to  make  me  wise; 

And  Sanborn's  Life  of  Hank  Thoreau. 

Most  of  the  works  of  Neil  Munro, 
That  history  by  Wells  (H.  G.) 

And  (nicest  title  that  I  know) 
Gissing's  "By  the  Ionian  Sea," 

I'm  sure  my  mind  will  fertilize 

When  I  have  bought  some  more  Defoe; 
And  every  time  they  advertise 

That  Merrick  set,  my  passions  grow. 

And  "Far  Away  and  Long  Ago" 
And  "Goosequill  Papers"  (L.  I.  G.)* 

Will  stand  upon  this  shelf,  below 
Gissing's  "By  the  Ionian  Sea." 


ENVOY 

Booksellers!      I  soliloquize 

No  merely  idle  rhapsody — 
Some  day  you'll  see  a  man  who  buys 

Gissing's  "By  the  Ionian  Sea." 

Christofher  Morley 

*  Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 


236  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  TEMPTING  BOOK 

Sometimes  when  I  sit  down  at  night 
And  try  to  think  of  something  new, 

Some  odd  conceit  that  I  may  write 
And  work  into  a  verse  or  two, 
There  often  dawns  upon  my  view, 
The  while  my  feeble  thoughts  I  nurse, 

A  little  book  in  gold  and  blue — 

"The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse." 


And  though  I  try,  in  wild  affright 
At  thought  of  all  I  have  to  do, 

To  keep  that  volume  out  of  sight. 
If  I  so  much  as  look  askew 
I  catch  it  playing  peek-a-boo. 
Then  work  may  go  to — pot,  or  worse! 

I'm  giving  up  the  evening  to 

"The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse." 


O!  some  for  essays  recondite, 
And  some  for  frothy  fiction  sue, 

But  give  to  me  for  my  delight 

One  tuneful  tome  to  ramble  through; 
To  hear  the  first  quaint  "Sing  Cuccu!" 
And  all  those  noble  songs  rehearse 

Whose  deathless  melodies  imbue 

"The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse." 


L  ENVOI 

Kind  Reader,  here's  a  tip  for  you: 
Go  buy,  though  skinny  be  your  purse 

And  other  books  of  yours  be  few, 

"The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse." 

Thomas  A.  Daly 


BALLADES  237 


A  BALLADE  OF  A  BOOK-REVIEWER 

I  have  not  read  a  rotten  page 

Of   "Sex-Hate"   or   "The   Social   Test," 

And  here  comes  "Husks"  and  "Heritage"  . 

0  Moses,  give  us  all  a  rest! 
"Ethics  of  Empire"!  ...  I  protest 

1  will  not  even  cut  the  strings, 

I'll  read  "Jack  Redskin  on  the  Quest" 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 


Somebody  wants  a  Wiser  Age 
(He  also  wants  me  to  invest)  ; 
Somebody  likes  the   Finnish  Stage 
Because  the  Jesters  do  not  jest; 
And  grey  with  dust  is  Dante's  crest, 
The  bell  of  Rabelais  soundless  swings; 
And  the  winds  come  out  of  the  west 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 


Lord  of  our  laughter  and  our  rage, 
Look  on  us  with  our  sins  oppressed! 
I,  too,  have  trodden  mine  heritage. 
Wickedly  wearying  of  the  best. 
Burn  from  my  brain  and  from  my  breast 
Sloth,  and  the  cowardice  that  clings, 
And  stiffness  and  the  soul's  arrest: 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 


3NVOI 

Prince,  you  are  host  and  I  am  guest, 
Therefore  I  shrink  from  cavillings  .  .  . 
But  I  should  have  that  fizz  suppressed 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 

G.  K.  Chesterton 


238  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  BALLAD  OF  IMITATION 

"C'est  imiter  quelqu'un  que  dc  planter  des  choux." 

— Alfred  de  Musset. 

If  they  hint,  O  Musician,  the  piece  that  you  played 

Is  nought  but  a  copy  of  Chopin  or  Spohr; 
That  the  ballad  you  sing  is  but  merely  "conveyed" 

From  the  stock  of  the  Arnes  and  the  Purcells  of  yore; 

That  there's  nothing,  in  short,  in  the  words  or  the  score, 
That  is  not  as  out-worn  as  the  "Wandering  Jew," 

Make  answer — Beethoven  could  scarcely  do  more — 
That  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too! 


If  they  tell  you.  Sir  Artist,  your  light  and  your  shade 

Are  simply  "adapted"  from  other  men's  lore; 
That — plainly  to  speak  of  a  "spade"  as  a  "spade" — 

You've  "stolen"  your  grouping  from  three  or  from  four; 

That  (however  the  writer  the  truth  may  deplore), 
'Twas  Gainsborough  painted  your  "Little  Boy  Blue"; 

Smile  only  serenely — though  cut  to  the  core — 
For  the  man  who   plants  cabbages   imitates,   too! 


And  you  too,  my  Poet,  be  never  dismayed 

If  they  whisper  your  Epic — "Sir  Eperon  d'Or" — 
Is  nothing  but  Tennyson  thinly  arrayed 

In  a  tissue  that's  taken  from  Morris's  store; 

That  no  one,  in  fact,  but  a  child  could  ignore 
That  you  "lift"  or  "accommodate"  all  that  you  do; 

Take  heart — though  your  Pegasus'  withers  be  sore- 
For  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too! 


PosTCRiPTUM. — And  you,  whom  we  all  so  adore, 
Dear  Critics,  whose  verdicts  are  always  so  new! — 

One  word  in  your  ear.     There  were  Critics  before. 
And  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too! 

Austin  Dob  son 


BALLADES  239 


THE   BALLADE  OF  ADAPTATION 

The  native  drama's  sick  and  dying, 

So  say  the  cynic  critic  crew: 
The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"Bring  me  the  paste!      Bring  me  the  glue! 

Bring  me  the  pen,  and  scissors,  too! 
Bring  me  the  works  of  E.  Augier! 

Bring  me  the  works  of  V.  Sardou! 
I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play!" 

For  want  of  plays  the  stage  is  sighing. 

Such  is  the  song  the  wide  world  through: 
The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"Behold  the  comedies  I  brew! 

Behold  my  dramas  not  a  few! 
On  German  farces  I  can  prey, 

And  English  novels  I  can  hew: 
/  am  the  man  to  write  a  play!" 


There  is,  indeed,  no  use  denying 

That  fashion's  turned  from  old  to  new: 

The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"Moliere,  good-bye!     Shakespeare,  adieu! 
I  do  not  think  so  much  of  you. 

Although  not  bad,  you've  had  your  day, 
And  for  the  present  you  won't  do. 

I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play!" 


ENVOI 

Prince  of  the  stage,  don't  miss  the  cue, 

A   native    dramatist,    I    say 
To  every  cynic  critic,  "Pooh! 

I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play!" 

Brander  Matthews 


240  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  VERY  WOFUL  BALLADE  OF  THE  ART  CRITIC 

(To  E.  A.  Abbey) 

A  spirit  came  to  my  sad  bed, 
And  weary  sad  that  night  was  I, 
Who'd  tottered,  since  the  dawn  was  red, 
Through  miles  of  Grosvenor  Gallery, 
Yea,  leagues  of  long  Academy 
Awaited  me  when  morn  grew  white, 
'Twas  then   the  Spirit  whispered  nigh, 
"Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write! 

"Of  many  a  portrait  grey  as  lead. 
Of  many  a  mustard-coloured  sky. 
Say  much,  where  little  should  be  said. 
Lay  on  thy  censure  dexterously. 
With  microscopic  glances  pry 
At  textures,  Tadema's  delight, 
Praise  foreign  swells,  they  always  cry. 
Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write!" 

I  answered,  "  'Tis  for  daily  bread, 

A  sorry  crust,  I  ween,  and  dry. 

That  still,  with  aching  feet  and  head, 

I  push  this  lawful  industry, 

'Mid  pictures  hung  or  low,  or  high. 

But,  touching  that  which   I   indite, 

Do  artists  hold  me  lovingly? 

Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write." 

The  Spirit  writeth  in  form  of 

ENVOY 

"They  fain  would  black  thy  dexter  eye, 
They  hate  thee  with  a  bitter  spite, 
But  scribble  since  thou  must,  or  die. 
Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write!" 

Andrew  Lang 


BALLADES  241 


THE  BALLADE  OF  FACT  AND  FICTION 

I. 

When  in  the  parlor  car  we  speed 

And  rattle  o\-er  hill  and  dale, 
We  do  not  greatly  care  to  read, 

And  turn  away  aghast  and  pale 

From  the  wares  the  newsboy  has  for  sale, 
Until,  by  some  chance  scene  perplexed. 

We  turn  the  page  und  find — without  fail — 
(To  Be  Continued  in  Our  Next.) 

11. 

Although  we  wish  to  know,  indeed. 

If  the  Scout  discovers  Big  Knife's  trail; 
If  the  Pirate's  well-laid  plots  succeed; 

If  the  Cabin-boy  harpoons  that  whale; 

If  the  Maid  is  forced  to  take  the  veil; 
If  the  Villain's  from  his  purpose  flexed. 

And  if  the  Burglar  breaks  his  jail — 
(To  Be  Continued  in  Our  Next.) 

HI. 

Young  men  and  maidens,  we  must  take  heed. 
When  Cupid  lets  us  out  on  bail ; 

Nor  shall  our  fancy,  lightly  freed, 
Prevent  our   kneeling  at  the  rail 
Where  priests  confirm  the  fetters  frail. 

And  "Love  each  other"  take  for  text: 

In  Marriage  is  Courtship — somewhat  stale — 

To  be  continued  in  our  next. 

ENVOY 

Oh,  moralists,  whose  plaints  exhale, 
By  problems  of  existence  vexed. 

Remember,  Life  is  but  a  tale 
To  be  continued  in  our  next. 

Brander  Matthews 


242  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  DIME  NOVELS 

Gone  are  the  tales  that  once  we  read! 

And  none  that  come  within  our  ken 
May  equal  those  that  filled  the  head 

Of  many  a  worthy  citizen 

Who  thrilled  with  boyish  rapture,  when, 
In  retribution  stern  and  just, 

"The  deadly  rifle  spoke, — and  then 
Another  redskin  bit  the  dust." 


We  had  no  malice,  not  a  shred; 

For  which  of  us  would  hurt  a  wren? 
Not  blood,  but  ink  was  what  we  shed; 

And  yet,  we  bore  ourselves  like  men! 

With  Buckhorn  Bill  and  Bigfoot  Ben 
In  clutch  of  steel  we  put  our  trust, 

Until,   deprived  of  oxygen, 
Another  redskin  bit  the  dust. 


On  moccasins  with  silent  tread 

We  tracked  our  foes  through  marsh  and  fen. 
We  rescued  maidens  sore  bestead 

From  savage  thrall  and  outlaw's  den. 

We  feared  no  odds  of  one  to  ten. 
Nor  hatchet  stroke  nor  bowie  thrust. 

While  still,  in  wood  or  rocky  glen, 
Another  redskin  bit  the  dust. 


ENVOI 

Take  up  the  long  neglected  pen, 
Redeem  its  valiant  steel  from  rust, 

And  scrawl  those  magic  words  again: 
"Another  redskin  bit  the  dust!" 

Arthur  Guiterman 


BALLADES  243 

BALLADE  OF  THE  OUBLIETTE  * 

And  deeper  still  the  deep-down  oubliette, 
Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling  day. 

— Tennyson. 

Sudden  in  the  sun 
An  oubliette  winks.     Where  is  he?      Gone. 

— Mrs.  Browning. 

Gaoler  of  the  donjon  deep — 
Black  from  pit  to  parapet — 
In  whose  depths   forever  sleep 
Famous  bores  whose  sun  has  set, 
Daily  ope  the  portal;  let 
In  the  bores  who  daily  bore. 
Thrust — sans  sorrow  or  regret — 
Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Warder  of  Oblivion's  keep — 
Dismal  dank,  and  black  as  jet — 
Through  the  fatal  wicket  sweep 
All  the  pests  we  all  have  met. 
Prithee,  overlook  no  bet; 
Grab  them — singly,  by  the  score — 
And,  lest  they  be  with  us  yet. 
Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Lead  them  to  the  awful  leap 

With  a  merry  chansonette; 

Push  them  blithely  off  the  steep; 

We'll   forgive  them  and  forget. 

Toss  them,  like  a  cigarette, 

To  the  far  Plutonian  floor. 

Drop  them  where  they'll  cease  to  fret — 

Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Keeper  of  the  Oubliette, 

Wouldst  thou  have  us  more  and  more 

In   thine  everlasting  debt — 

Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Bert  Leston  Taylor 

*  From  The  So-Called  Human  Race  by  B.  L.  Taylor.     Copy- 
right  1922  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Publisher. 


244-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

There  are  moons  of  all  quarters  and  kinds, 

There's  the  moon  of  the  Poacher's  delight. 
And  the  Harvester's  Moon  when  the  hinds 

Lead  home  the  brown  barley  all  night. 
So  brilliant  she  is  and  so  bright; 

There's  a  Hunting  Moon  men  watch  the  sky  for, 
And  Dan  Russell  prepares  him  for  flight, 

But,  ah  me,  for  the  Moon  that  I  cry  for! 


There's  the  little,  new  sickle  one  finds 

When  (results,  I  admit,  have  been  slight!) 

I  uncover  my  head  to  the  winds 

And  wish  with  the  whole  of  my  might; 

There  are  shields  of  full  silver  alight 

From  the  nights  of  lost  Junes  one  might  die  for,- 

Old  Thames  flowing  golden  and  white, 
But,  ah  me,  for  the  Moon  that  I  cry  for! 


And  in  all  of  her  beauty  that  blinds. 

And  In  all  of  her  majesty  dight, 
'Twas  Dian    (in   Dorian   minds) 

Who  darkling  sought  Latmos's  height, 
And,  lost  in  the  pines  and  the  night. 

The  lips  of  her  shepherd  she'd  sigh  for. 
As  Dolly  the  Milking-Maid  might, 

But,  ah  me,  for  the  Moon  that  I  cry  for! 


ENVOY 

Princess,  I'm  in  sorriest  plight. 

And  I  lack  me  the  tongue  to  say  why  for, 
But  read  me  a  little  a-right — 

A  A  Tne,  for  the  Moon  that  I  cry  for! 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers 


BALLADES  245 


THE  OPTIMIST 

Heed  not  the  folk  who  sing  or  say 

In  sonnet  sad  or  sermon  chill, 
'Alas!  alack!  and  well-a-day! 

This  round  world's  but  a  bitter  pilll' 

Poor  porcupines  of  fretful  quill! 
Sometimes  we  quarrel  with  our  lot: 

We,   too,   are  sad  and   careful — still, 
We'd  rather  be  alive  than  not. 

What  though  we  wish  the  cats  at  play 
Would  some  one  else's  garden  till; 

Though  Sophonisba  drop  the  tray 

And  all  our  worshipped  Worcester  spill. 
Though  neighbours  'practise'  loud  and  shrill, 

Though  May  be  cold  and  June  be  hot, 

Though  April  freeze  and  August  grill, — 

We'd  rather  be  alive  than  not. 

And,  sometimes,  on  a  summer's  day 

To  self  and  every  mortal   ill 
We  give  the  slip,  we  steal  away. 

To  lie  beside  some  sedgy  rill; 

The  darkening  years,  the  cares  that  kill, 
A  little  while  are  well  forgot; 

Deep  in  the  broom  upon  the  hill 
We'd  rather  be  alive  than  not. 

Pistol,  with  oaths  didst  thou  fulfil 
The  task  thy  braggart  tongue  begot. 

We  eat  our  leek  with  better  will. 
We'd  rather  be  alive  than  not. 

Graham  R.  Tonison 


246  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  SCHOPENHAUER'S  PHILOSOPHY 

Wishful  to  add  to  my  mental  power, 

Avid  of  knowledge  and  wisdom,  I 
Pondered  the  Essays  of  Schopenhauer, 

Taking  his  terrible  hills  on  high. 

Worried  I  was,  and  a  trifle  shy, 
Fearful  I'd  find  him  a  bit  opaque! 

Thus  does  he  say,  with  a  soul-sick  sigh: 
"The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break." 


Life,  he  says^  is  awry  and  sour; 

Life,  he  adds,  is  sour  and  awry; 
Love,  he  says,  is  a  withered  flower; 

Love,  he  adds,  is  a  dragon-fly; 

Love,  he  swears,  is  the  Major  Lie; 
Life,  he  vows,  is  the  Great  Mistake; 

No  one  can  beat  it,  and  few  can  tie. 
The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 


Women,  he  says,  are  clouds  that  lower; 

Women  dissemble  and  falsify. 
(Those  are  things  that  The  Conning  Tower 

Cannot  asseverate  or  deny.) 

Futile  to  struggle,  and  strain,  and  try; 
Pleasure  is  freedom  from  pain  and  ache; 

The  greatest  thing  you  can  do  is  die — 
The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 


l'envoi 


Gosh,  I  feel  like  a  real  good  cry! 

Life,  he  says,  is  a  cheat,  a  fake. 
Well,  I  agree  with  the  grouchy  guy — 

The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 

Franklin  P.  Adams 


BALLADES  247 


A  BALLADE  OF  SUICIDE 

The  gallows  in  my  garden,  people  say, 
Is  new  and  neat  and  adequately  tall. 
I  tie  the  noose  on  in  a  knowing  way 
As  one  that  knots  his  necktie  for  a  ball ; 
But  just  as  all  the  neighbors — on  the  wall — 
Are  drawing  a  long  breath  to  shout  "Hurray!" 
The  strangest  whim  has  seized  me.  .  .  .  After  all 
I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  today. 


To-morrow  is  the  time  I  get  my  pay — 
My  uncle's  sword  is  hanging  in  the  hall — 
I  see  a  little  cloud  all  pink  and  grey — 
Perhaps  the  rector's  mother  will  not  call — 
I  fancy  that  I  heard  from  Mr.  Gall 
That  mushrooms  could  be  cooked  another  way — 
I  never  read  the  books  of  Juvenal — 
I  think  1  will  not  hang  myself  today. 


The  world  will  have  another  washing  day; 

The  decadents  decay;  the  pedants  fall; 

And  H.  G.  Wells  has  found  that  children  play. 

And  Bernard  Shaw  discovered  that  they  squall ; 

Rationalists  are  growing  rational — 

And  through  thick  woods  one  finds  a  stream  astray, 

So  secret  that  the  very  sky  seems  small — 

I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  today. 


ENVOI 

Prince,  I  can  hear  the  trumpet  of  Germinal, 
The  tumbrils  toiling  up  the  terrible  way; 
Even  today  your  royal  head  may  fall — 
I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  today. 

Gilbert  K.  Chesterton 


248  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  THE  ANCIENT  WHEEZE 

I  wonder  if,  sunning  in  Eden's  vales, 
Fielding  and  Smollett  still  hold  swayj 
And  Gaffer  Chaucer  sits  swapping  tales 
With  Old  Sam  Clemens  and  Rabelais? 
And  then  1  can  hear,  'mid  the  merry  play 
Of  wit  and  laughter's  jovial  din. 
One  or  the  other  guffaw  and  say: 
"A  travelling  salesman  came  to  an  inn — ." 

Over  the  scented  Elysian  swales 
Pan  strides  piping  to  nymph  and  fay; 
But  down  in  the  depths  of  the  woodland  dales 
A  whisper  goes  round  where  the  men  folk  stay. 
There's  mischief  abroad,  or  my  wit's  astray — 
Shepherds  a-chuckle  and  fauns  a-grin — 
Theocritus  starts  in  the  same  old  way; 
"A  travelling  salesman  came  to  an  inn — ." 

This  is  the  password  of  brother  males, 
Linking  together  the  grave  and  gay, 
Story  that  never  grows  old  nor  stales. 
Jest  that  is  stranger  to  Time's  decay, 
Life  scarred  veterans,  old  and  gray. 
Skinny  of  arm  and  lank  of  shin. 
Cackle  at  thoughts  of  the  old  brave  fray — 
"A  travelling  salesman  came  to  an  inn — ." 


l'envoi 


Prince,  you  are  fashioned  of  mortal  clay, 

Tarry  a  little  and  quaff  a  skin. 

I  heard  a  good  one  the  other  day — 

"A  travelling  salesman  came  to  an  inn — ." 

Nate  Salsbury 
Nezvma7i  Levy 


BALLADES  249 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  LAUGHTER 

When  I  look  back,  as  daylight  closes, 
And  count  my  gains  and  losses  o'er. 

Rough  with  the  smooth;  the  rue,  the  roses j 
The  lost  and  lovely  that  no  more 
Come  when  I  knock  upon  the  door, 

Or  even  answer  when  I  call, 
I  see,  of  all  that  went  before. 

The  laughter  was  the  best  of  all. 


Man's  life,  some  say,  a  thing  of  prose  is; 

Not  so  his  life — as  mine  of  yore — 
Who  on  Miranda's  breast  reposes — 

Ah!  God,  that  fragrant  frock  she  wore! 

Hid  honey  still  at  the  heart's  core 
Her  bosom  like  a  hushed  snow-fall — 

And  yet,  for  all  we  kissed  and  swore, 
The  laughter  was  the  best  of  all. 


Truth  after  truth  old  Time  discloses, 
But,  as  we  hobble  to  fourscore. 

Each  finds  that  not  as  he  supposes 

The  gains  for  which  he  travailed  sore: 
Glory  or  gold,   the  wine  we  pour. 

The  face  that  held  our  lives  in  thrall — 
Somehow  the  bravest  grows  a  bore, 

The  laughter  was  the  best  of  all. 


ENVOI 

Prince,  much  of  wisdom  heretofore 
Time's  patient  pages  doth  bescrawl; 

This  is  the  sum  of  all  our  lore — 
The  laughter  was  the  best  of  all. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


BALLADES    A    DOUBLE    REFRAIN 


BALLADE  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN 

Keeper  of  promises  made  in  spring, 

Gilder  of  squalor  in  lowly  cot — 
Ever  true  and  unwavering — 

These  are  the  things  that  Love  is  not! 

This  is  pretty  to  round  the  plot 
Of  a  play,  for  the  playwright  knows  he  must 

Tickle  our  fancies  to  boil  his  pot — 
For  Love  is  a  liar  we  love  to  trust! 

Passion   immortal  that  poets  sing. 

Highest  of  gifts  that  the  gods  allot! 
Healing  balm  of  affliction's  sting — 

These  are  the  things  that  Love  is  not! 

Ay,  we  would  it  were  so,  God  wot! 
Snatch  we  at  apples  that  turn  to  dust! 

Learn  we  wisdom,  then?  Not  a  jot, 
For  Love  is  a  liar  we  love  to  trust! 

Poets  and  dramatists!     Ye  who  cling 

Still  to  the  old  romantic  rot. 
Though  I  am  telling  a  bitter  thing. 

These  are  the  things  that  Love  is  not! 

Love  is  a  breeze  blowing  cold  and  hot, 
A  young  man's  fancy — a  withering  gust 

Yet,  let  Love  call  and  we  rush  to  the  spot, 
For  Love  is  a  liar  we  love  to  trust! 

l'envoi 

Princess,  I  love  you!     I've  quite  forgot 
These  are  the  things  that  Love  is  not; 
'Tis  bitter  bread,  but  I  beg  a  crust, 
For  Love  is  a  liar  we  love  to  trust! 

Edwin  Meade  Robinson 
253 


254  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

BALLADE  OF  MIDSUMMER  DAYS  AND  NIGHTS 

(Double  Refrain) 
To  W.  H. 

With  a  ripple  of  leaves  and  a  tinkle  of  streams 
The  full  world  rolls  in  a  rhythm  of  praise, 
And  the  winds  are  one  with  the  clouds  and  beams — 
Midsummer  days!     Midsummer  days! 
The  dusk  grows  vast;  in  a  purple  haze, 
While  the  West  from  a  rapture  of  sunset  rights, 
Faint  stars  their  exquisite  lamps  upraise — 
Midsummer  nights!      O  midsummer  nights! 

The  wood's  green  heart  is  a  nest  of  dreams, 
The  lush  grass  thickens  and  springs  and  sways, 
The  rathe  wheat  rustles,  the  landscape  gleams — 
Midsummer  days!      Midsummer  days! 
In  the  stilly  fields,  in  the  stilly  ways, 
All  secret  shadows  and  mystic  lights. 
Late  lovers  murmur  and  linger  and  gaze — 
Midsummer  nights!     O  midsummer  nights! 

There's  a  music  of  bells  from  the  trampling  teams, 
Wild   skylarks  hover,   the  gorses  blaze. 
The  rich,  ripe  rose  as  with  incense  steams — 
Midsummer  days!      Midsummer  days! 
A  soul  from  the  honeysuckle  strays. 
And  the  nightingale  as  from  prophet  heights 
Sings  to  the  Earth  of  her  million  Mays — 
Midsummer  nights!      O  midsummer  nights! 

ENVOY 

And  it's  O,  for  my  dear  and  the  charm  that  stays — 
Midsummer  days!      Midsummer  days! 
It's  O,  for  my  Love  and  the  dark  that  plights — 
Midsummer  nights!     O  midsummer  nights! 

W.  E.  Henley 


BALLADES  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN  25  5 

RAIN  AND  SHINE 

(Ballade  a  double  refrain) 

The  clouds  are  thick  and  darkly  lower; 

The  sullen   sodden   sky  would   fain 
Pour  down  a  never-ending  shower: 

I  hear  the  pattering  of  the  rain, 

I  hear  it  rattle  on  the  pane. — 
And  then   I   see   the  mist  entwining, 

Nor  one   position   long  retain. 
Behold!   the  gentle  sun  is  shining! 

As  though  exulting  In   its  power, 

The  storm  beats  down  with  steady  strain ; 
Upon  the  ivy  of  the  tower 

I  hear  the  pattering  of  the  rain; 

It  swiftly  sweeps  across  the  plain. — 
And   then   I   see   the  sky  refining, 

And  molten  with  a  golden  stain. 
Behold!   the  gentle  sun  is  shining! 

Beneath  the  storm  the  cattle  cower; 

It  beats  upon  the  growing  grain. 
And  as  it  breaks  both  bud  and  flower, 

I  hear  the  pattering  of  the  rain, — 

From  where  the  clouds  too  long  have  lain 
They  turn,  and  show  a  silver  lining, 

A  splendid  glory  comes  again. 
Behold!   the  gentle  sun  is  shining! 

ENVOY 

Although  like  some  far,  faint  refrain, 
I  hear  the  pattering  of  the  rain. 
The  storm  is  past.      No  more  repining — 
Behold!   the  gentle  sun  is  shining! 

Brander  Matthews 


\ 


256  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

BALLADE  OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

(Double  Refrain) 

Spring  at  her  height  on  a  morn  at  prime, 

Sails  that  laugh  from  a  flying  squall, 
Pomp  of  harmony,  rapture  of  rhyme — 

Youth   is  the  sign  of  them,  one  and   all. 

Winter  sunsets  and  leaves  that  fall. 
An  empty  flagon,  a  folded  page, 

A  tumble-down  wheel,  a  tattered  ball — 
These  are  a  type  of  the  world  of  Age. 

Bells  that  clash  in  a  gorgeous  chime. 

Swords  that  clatter  in  outsets  tall. 
The  words  that  ring  and  the  fames  that  climb — 

Youth  is  the  sign  of  them,  one  and  all. 

Old  hymnals  prone  in  a  dusty  stall, 
A  bald  blind  bird  in  a  crazy  cage, 

The   scene  of   a   faded   festival — 
These  are  a  type  of  the  world  of  Age. 

Hours  that  strut  as  the  heirs  of  time. 

Deeds  whose  rumour's  a  clarion-call. 
Songs  where  the  singers  their  souls  sublime — 

Youth  is  the  sign  of  them,  one  and  all. 

A  staff  that  rests  in  a  nook  of  wall, 
A  reeling  battle,  a  rusted  gage. 

The  chant  of  a  nearing  funeral — 
These  are  a  type  of  the  world  of  Age. 

ENVOY 

Struggle  and  sacrifice,  revel  and  brawl — 
Youth  is  the  sign  of  them,  one  and  all. 
A  smouldering  hearth  and  a  silent  stage — 
These  are  a  type  of  the  world  of  Age. 

W.  E.  Henley 


BALLADES  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN  257 

BALLADE  OF  WISDOM  AND  FOLLY 
(A    Double   Refrain) 

I  study  wise  themes  with  rigid  care, 

Logic  and  law  and  philosophy, 
Sermons  and  science,  and  I  declare 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  when  I  read  with  a  lively  glee 
Rollicking  tales  of  fun  and  mirth, 

I  laugh  to  myself,  and  I  clearly  see 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

To  copy  the  masters  I  oft  repair, — 

Of  Rubens  and  Rembrandt  a  devotee; 
I  study  line  and  school  with  care, — 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

Then  I  see  a  sketch  in  a  lighter  key, 
Ah,  line  and  school  were  never  worth 

This  little  French  bit  of  frivolity,T — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

I  know  a  girl  who  is  calm  and  fair, 

Of  ancient  and  noble  pedigree; 
She's  wise  and  learned  beyond  compare, — 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  another  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 
Without  her,  life  were  a  dreary  dearth; 

Fickle  and  foolishly  fond  is  she, — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 


l'envoi 


Prince,  I  am  sure  you  must  agree 
Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 
But  ever  I'll  give  it  the  widest  berth, — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

Carolyn  Wells 


258  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

BALLADE  OF  THE  REAL  AND  IDEAL 

(Double  Refrain) 

O  visions  of  salmon  tremendous, 
Of  trout  of  unusual  weight, 
Of  waters  that  wander  as  Ken  does, 
Ye  come   through   the   Ivory  Gate! 
But  the  skies  that  bring  never  a  'spate,' 
But  the  flies  that  catch  up  in  a  thorn, 
But  the  creel  that  is  barren  of  freight. 
Through  the  portals  of  horn! 

O  dre.Tms  of  the  Fates  that  attend  us 

With  prints  in  the  earliest  state, 

O  bargains  in  books  that  they  send  us. 

Ye   come   through   the    Ivory  Gate! 

But  the  tome  of  a  dubious  date, 

But  the  quarto  that's  tattered  and  torn. 

And  bereft  of  a  title  and  date. 

Through   the  portals  of  horn! 

O  dreams  of  the  tongues  that  commend  us. 
Of  crowns  for  the  laureate  pate, 
Of  a  Public  to  buy  and  befriend  us. 
Ye  come  through  the  Ivory  Gate! 
But  the  critics  that  slash  us  and  slate. 
But  the  people  that  hold  us  in  scorn. 
But  the  sorrow,  the  scathe,  and  the  hate, 
Through   the  portals  of  horn! 

ENVOY 

Fair  dreams  of  things  golden  and  great, 
Ye  come  through  the  Ivory  Gate; 
But  the  facts  that  are  bleak  and  forlorn, 
Through   the  portals  of  horn! 

Andrew  Lang 


BALLADES  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN  259 


A    BALLADE    OF    DEATH    AND   TIME 

I  hold  it  truth  with  him  who  sweetly  sings — 
The  weekly  music  of  the  London  Sfhere — 
That  deathless  tomes  the  living  present  brings; 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Books  of  the  mighty  dead,  whom  men  revere, 
Remind  me  1  can  make  my  books  sublime. 
But  prithee,  bay  my  brow  while  I  am  here: 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 


Shakespeare,  great  spirit,  beat  his  mighty  wings, 
As  I  beat  mine,  for  che  occasion  near. 
He  knew,  as  I,  the  worth  of  present  things: 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Methinks  1  meet  across  the  gulf  his  clear 
And  tranquil  eye;  his  calm  reflections  chime 
With  mine:  "Why  do  we  at  the  present  fleer? 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time?" 


The  readmg  world  with  acclamation  rings 
For  my  last  book.     It  led  the  list  at  Weir, 
Altoona,  Rahway,  Painted  Post,  Hot  Springs: 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
The  Booktnaft  gives  me  a  vociferous  cheer. 
Howells  approves!     I  can  no  higher  climb. 
Bring  then  the  laurel,  crown  my  bright  career. 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 


l'envoi 


Critics,  who  pastward,  ever  pastward  peer, 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Trumpet  my  fame  while  I  am  in  my  prime. 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 

Bert  Leston  Taylor 


260  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

THE  BALLADE  OF  PROSE  AND  RHYME 

(Ballade  a  double  refrain) 

When  the  roads  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut, 
In  November  fogs,  in  December  snows, 

When  the  North  Wind  howls,  and  the  doors  are  shut, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; — 
But  whenever  a  scent  from  the  whitethorn  blows, 

And  the  jasmine-stars  to  the  casement  climb, 
And  a  Rosalind-face  at  the  lattice  shows. 

Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 
When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarest  toes, 

When  the  mind  (like  a  beard)  has  a  "formal  cut," 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose  ;- 
But  whenever  the  May-blood  stirs  and  glows. 

And  the  young  year  draws  to  the  "golden  prime," — 
And  Sir  Romeo  sticks  in  his  ear  a  rose. 

Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant-strut 
In  a  changing  quarrel  of  "Ayes"  and  "Noes," 

In  a  starched  procession  of  "If"  and  "But," 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; — 
But  whenever   a   soft  glance   softer  grows. 

And   the   light   hours   dance    to    the    trysting-time, 
And  the  secret  is  told  "that  no  one  knows," 

Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 


ENVOY 

In  the  work-a-day  world, — for  its  needs  and  woes, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose; 
But  whenever  the  May-bells  clash  and  chime, 
Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme! 

Austm  Dobson 


DOUBLE    BALLADES 


DOUBLE  BALLAD 

Of  the  Singers  of  the  Time. 


I. 


Why  are  our  songs  like  the  moan  of  the  main, 

When  the  wild  winds  buffet  it  to  and  fro, 
(Our  brothers  ask  us  again  and  again) 

A  weary  burden  of  hopes  laid  low? 

Have  birds  ceased  singing  or  flowers  to  blow? 
Is  Life  cast  down  from  its  fair  estate? 

This  I  answer  them — nothing  mo' — 
Songs  atid  singers  are  out  of  date. 


II. 


What  shall  we  sing  of?      Our  hearts  are  fain. 
Our  bosoms  burn  with  a  sterile  glow. 

Shall  we  sing  of  the  sordid  strife  for  gain, 
For  shameful  honour,  for  wealth  and  woe. 
Hunger  and  luxury, — weeds  that  throw 

Up  from  one  seeding  their  flowers  of  hate? 

Can  we  tune  our  lutes  to  these  themes?      Ah  no! 

Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date. 


III. 


Our  songs  should  be  of  Faith  without  stain, 
Of  haughty  honour  and  deaths  that  sow 

The  seeds  of  life  on  the  battle-plain. 
Of  loves  unsullied  and  eyes  that  show 
The  fair  white  soul  in  the  deeps  below. 

Where  are  they,  these  that  our  songs  await 
To  wake  to  joyance?      Doth  any  know? 

Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date. 

263 


26+  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


IV. 

What  have  we  done  with  meadow  and  lane? 

Where  are  the  flowers  and  the  hawthorn-snow? 
Acres  of  brick  in  the  pitiless  rain, — 

These  are  our  gardens  for  thorpe  and  stow! 

Summer  has  left  us  long  ago, 
Gone  to  the  lands  where  the  turtles  mate 

And  the  crickets  chirp  in  the  wild-rose  row. 
Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date. 

V. 

We  sit  and  sing  to  a  world  in  pain; 

Our  heartstrings  quiver  sadly  and  slow: 
But,  aye  and  anon,  the  murmurous  strain 

Swells  up  to  a  clangour  of  strife  and  throe. 

And  the  folk  that  hearken,  or  friend  or  foe, 
Are  ware  that  the  stress  of  the  time  is  great 

And  say  to  themselves,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date. 

VI. 

Winter  holds  us,  body  and  brain: 

Ice   is  over  our  being's  flow; 
Song  is  a  flower  that  will  droop  and  wane, 

If  it  have  no  heaven  towards  which  to  grow. 

Faith  and  beauty  are  dead,  I  trow 
Nothing  is  left  but  fear  and  fate: 

Men  are  weary  of  hope;  and  so 
Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date. 

John  Payne 


DOUBLE  BALLADES  265 

A  DOUBLE  BALLAD  OF  AUGUST 

(1884) 

All  Afric,  winged  with  death  and  fire, 
Pants  in  our  pleasant   English  air. 
Each  blade  of  grass  is  tense  as  wire, 
And  all  the  wood's  loose  trembling  hair 
Stark  in  the  broad  and  breathless  glare 
Of  hours  whose  touch  wastes  herb  and  tree, 
This  bright  sharp  death  shines  everywhere; 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 

Earth  seems  a  corpse  upon  the  pyre; 
The  sun,  a  scourge  for  slaves  to  bear. 
All  power  to  fear,  all   keen  desire. 
Lies  dead  as  dreams  of  days  that  were 
Before  the  new-born  world  lay  bare 
In  heaven's  wide  eye,  whereunder  we 
Lie  breathless  till  the  season  spare: 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 

Fierce  hours,  with  ravening  fangs  that  tire 
On  spirit  and  sense,  divide  and  share 
The  throbs  of  thoughts  that  scarce  respire. 
The  throes  of  dreams  that  scarce  forbear 
One  mute  immitigable  prayer 
For  cold  perpetual  sleep  to  be 
Shed  snowlike  on  the  sense  of  care. 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 

The  dust  of  ways  where  men  suspire 
Seems  even  the  dust  of  death's  dim  lair. 
But  though  the  feverish  days  be  dire 
The  sea-wind  rears  and  cheers  its  fair 
Blithe  broods  of  babes  that  here  and  there 
Make  the  sands  laugh  and  glow  for  glee 
With  gladder  flowers  than  gardens  wear. 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 


266  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  music  dies  not  off  the  lyre 
That  lets  no  soul  alive  despair. 
Sleep  strikes  not  dumb  the  breathless  choir 
Of  waves  whose  note  bids  sorrow  spare. 
As  glad  they  sound,  as  fast  they  fare, 
As  when  fate's  word  first  set  them  free 
And  gave  them  light  and  night  to  wear. 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 

For  there,  though  night  and  day  conspire 
To  compass  round  with  toil  and  snare 
And  changeless  whirl  of  change,  whose  gyre 
Draws  all  things  deathwards  unaware, 
The  spirit  of  life  they  scourge  and  scare. 
Wild  waves  that  follow  on  waves  that  flee 
Laugh,  knowing  that  yet,  though  earth  despair 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


DOUBLE  BALLADE  OF  LIFE  AND  FATE 

Fools  may  pine,  and  sots  may  swill, 
Cynics  gibe,   and  prophets  rail, 
Moralists  may  scourge  and  drill. 
Preachers  prose,   and    fainthearts  quail. 
Let  them  whine,  or  threat,  or  wail! 
Till  the  touch  of  Circumstance 
Down  to  darkness  sink  the  scale, 
Fate's  a  fiddler.  Life's  a  dance. 

What  if  skies  be  wan  and  chill? 
What  if  winds  be  harsh  and  stale? 
Presently  the  east  will  thrill, 
And  the  sad  and  shrunken  sail, 
Bellying  with   a   kindly  gale. 
Bear  you  sunwards,  while  your  chance 
Sends  you  back  the  hopeful  hail: — 
"Fate's  a  fiddler.  Life's  a  dance." 


DOUBLE  BALLADES  267 

Idle  shot  or  coming  bill, 
Hapless  love  or  broken  bail, 
Gulp  it  (never  chew  your  pilli;, 
And,  If  Burgundy  should  fail, 
Try  the  humbler  pot  of  ale! 
Over   all   is  heaven's  expanse. 
Gold's  to  find  among  the  shale. 
Fate's  a  fiddler.  Life's  a  dance. 

Dull  Sir  Joskin  sleeps  his  fill, 
Good  Sir  Galahad  seeks  the  Grail, 
Proud  Sir  Pertinax  flaunts  his   frill, 
Hard  Sir  ^ger  dints  his  mail; 
And  the  while  by  hill  and  dale 
Tristram's  braveries  gleam  and  glance, 
And  his  blithe  horn  tells  its  tale: — 
"Fate's  a  fiddler.  Life's  a  dance." 

Araminta's  grand  and  shrill, 
Delia's  passionate  and  frail, 
Doris  drives  an  earnest  quill, 
Athanasia  takes  the  veil: 
Wiser  Phyllis  o'er  her  pail, 
At   the   heart  of   all    romance 
Reading,  sings  to  Strephon's  flail: — 
"Fate's  a  fiddler,  Life's  a  dance." 

Every  Jack  must  have  his  Jill, 
(Even  Johnson  had  his  Thrale!): 
Forward  couples — with  a  will! 
This,  the  world,  is  not  a  jail. 
Hear  the  music,  sprat  and  whale! 
Hands  across,   retire,   advance! 
Though  the  doomsman's  on  your  trail, 
Fate's  a  fiddler,  Life's  a  dance. 

ENVOY 

Boys  and  girls,  at  slug  and  snail 
And  their  kindred  look  askance. 
Pay  your   footing  on  the  nail: 
Fate's  a  fiddler,  Life's  a  dance, 

W.  E.  Henley 


268  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  DOUBLE  BALLAD  OF  GOOD  COUNSEL 

(Villon) 

Now  take  your  fill  of  love  and  glee, 

And  after  balls  and  banquets  hie; 
In  the  end  ye'll  get  no  good  for  fee, 

But  just  heads  broken  by  and  by; 

Light  loves  make  beasts  of  men  that  sigh; 
They  changed  the  faith  of  Solomon, 

And  left  not  Samson  lights  to  spy; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Sweet  Orpheus,  lord  of  minstrelsy, 

For  this  with  flute  and  pipe  came  nigh 
The  danger  of  the  dog's  heads  three 

That  ravening  at  hell's  door  doth  lie; 

Fain  was  Narcissus,  fair  and  shy, 
For  love's  love  lightly  lost  and  won. 

In  a  deep  well  to  drown  and  die; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Sardana,   flower   of   chivalry. 

Who  conquered  Crete  with  horn  and  cry. 
For  this  was  fain  a  maid  to  be 

And  learn  with  girls  the  thread  to  ply; 

King  David,  wise  in  prophecy. 
Forgot  the  fear  of  God  for  one 

Seen  washing  either  shapely  thigh; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

For  this  did  Amnon,  craftily 

Feigning  to  eat  of  cakes  of  rye, 

Deflower  his  sister  fair  to  see. 

Which  was  foul   incest;  and  hereby 
Was  Herod  moved,  it  is  no  lie, 

To  lop  the  head  of  Baptist  John 
For  dance  and  jig  and  psaltery; 

Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 


DOUBLE  BALLADES  269 

Next  of  myself  I  tell,  poor  me, 

How  thrashed  like  clothes  at  wash  was  I 

Stark  naked,  I  must  needs  agree; 
Who  made  me  eat  so  sour  a  pie 
But  Katherine  of  Vaucelles?  thereby 

Noe  took  third  part  of  that  fun; 

Such  wedding-gloves  are  ill  to  buy; 

Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

But  for  that  young  man  fair  and  free 

To  pass  those  young  maids  lightly  by. 
Nay,  would  you  burn  him  quick,  not  he; 

Like  broom-horsed  witches  though  he  fry, 

They  are  sweet  as  civet  in  his  eye; 
But  trust  them,  and  you're  fooled  anon ; 

For  white  or  brown,  and  low  or  high. 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


DOUBLE  BALLADE  OF  THE  NOTHINGNESS 
OF  THINGS 

The   big  teetotum  twirls. 

And  epochs  wax  and  wane 
As  chance  subsides  or  swirls; 

But  of  the  loss  and  gain 

The  sum  is  always  plain. 
Read  on  the  mighty  pall, 
The  weed  of  funeral 

That  covers  praise  and  blame, 
The  isms  and  the  anities, 

Magnificence  and  shame, 
"O  Vanity  of  Vanities!" 

The  Fates  are  subtile  girls! 

They  give  us  chaff  for  grain ; 
And   Time,   the   Thunderer,   hurls. 

Like  bolted  death,  disdain 


270  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

At  all   that  heart  and  brain 
Conceive,  or  great  or  small, 
Upon  this  earthly  ball. 

Would  you  be  knight  and  dame? 
Or  woo  the  sweet  humanities? 

Or  illustrate  a  name? 
O  Vanity  of  Vanities! 

We  sound  the  sea  for  pearls. 

Or  lose  them  in  the  drain; 
We  flute  it  with  the  merles. 

Or  tug  and  sweat  and  strain; 

We  grovel,  or  we  reign; 
We  saunter,  or  we  brawl; 
We  answer,  or  we  call; 

We  search  the  stars  for  Fame, 
Or  sink  her  subterranities; 

The  legend's  still  the  same; — 
"O  Vanity  of  Vanities!" 

Here  at  the  wine  one  birls. 

There  someone  clanks  a  chain. 
The  flag  that   this  man  furls 

That  man   to  float  is  fain. 

Pleasure  gives  place  to  pain:  — 
These  in  the  kennel  crawl, 
While  others  take  the  wall. 

S^e  has  a  glorious  aim, 
He  lives  for  the  inanities. 

What  comes  of  every  claim? 
O  Vanity  of  Vanities! 

Alike  are  clods  and  earls. 

For  sot,  and  seer,  and  swain, 
For  emperors  and  for  churls. 

For  antidote  and  bane, 

There  is  but  one  refrain: 
But  one  for  king  and  thrall. 
For  David  and  for  Saul, 

For  fleet  of  foot  and  lame, 


DOUBLE  BALLADES  271 

For  pieties  and  profanities, 

The  picture  and  the  frame — 
"O  Vanity  of  Vanities!" 

Life  is  a  smoke  that  curls — 

Curls  in  a  flickering  skein, 
That  wind"  and  whisks  and  whirls, 

A  figment  thin  and  vain, 

Into  the  vast  Inane. 
One  end  for  hut  and  hall! 
One  end  for  cell  and  stall! 

Burned  in  one  common  flame 
Are  wisdoms  and  insanities. 

For  this  alone  we  came: — 
"O  Vanity  of  Vanities!" 

ENVOI 

Prince,  pride  must  have  a  fall. 
What  is  the  worth  of  all 

Your  state's  supreme  urbanities? 
Bad  at  the  best's  the  game. 
Well  might  the  sage  exclaim: — 

"O  Vanity  of  Vanities!" 

W.  E.  Henley 


CHANTS    ROYAL 


THE  PRAISE  OF  DIONYSUS 

Chant  Royal 

Behold,  above  the  mountains  there  is  light, 
A  streak  of  gold,  a  line  of  gathering  fire, 
And  the  dim  East  hath  suddenly  grown  bright 
With  pale  aerial  flame,  that  drives  up  higher 
The  lurid  mists  that  of  the  night  aware 
Breasted  the  dark  ravines  and  coverts  bare; 
Behold,  behold!   the  granite  gates  unclose, 
And  down  the  vales  a  lyric  people  flows, 
Who  dance  to  music,  and  in  dancing  fling 
Their  frantic  robes  to  every  wind  that  blows. 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

Nearer  they  press,   and   nearer  still    in   sight, 
Still   dancing  blithely  in   a  seemly  choir; 
Tossing  on   high  the  symbol  of  their  rite. 
The  cone-tipped  thyrsus  of  a  god's  desire; 
Nearer  they  come,  tall   damsels  flushed  and  fair, 
With  ivy  circling  their  abundant  hair. 
Onward,  with  even  pace,  in  stately  rows, 
With  eye  that  flashes,  and  with  cheek  that  glows. 
And   all   the  while   their   tribute-songs  they  bring. 
And  newer  glories  of  the  past  disclose, 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

The  pure  luxuriance  of  their  limbs  is  white, 
And  flashes  clearer  as  they  draw  the  nigher. 
Bathed  in  an  air  of  infinite  delight. 
Smooth  without  wound  of  thorn  or  fleck  of  mire, 
Borne  up  by  songs  as  by  a  trumpet's  blare, 
Leading  the  van  to  conquest,  on  they  fare; 
Fearless  and  bold,  whoever  comes  or  goes, 

275 


276  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

These  shining  cohorts  of  Bacchantes  close, 
Shouting  and  shouting  till  the  mountains  ring. 
And  forests  grim  forget  their  ancient  woes. 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

And  youths  are  there  for  whom  full  many  a  night 
Brought  dreams  of  bliss,  vague  dreams  that  haunt  and 

tire. 
Who  rose  in  their  own  ecstasy  bedight, 
And  wandered  forth  through  many  a  scourging  briar, 
And  waited  shivering  in  the  icy  air, 
And  wrapped  the  leopard-skin  about  them  there. 
Knowing,  for  all  the  bitter  air  that  froze. 
The  time  must  come,  that  every  poet  knows. 
When  he  shall  rise  and  feel  himself  a  king. 
And  follow,  follow  where  the  ivy  grows, 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

But  oh!    within  the  heart  of  this  great  flight. 
Whose  ivory  arms  hold  up  the  golden  lyre? 
What  form  is  this  of  more  than  mortal  height? 
What  matchless  beauty,  what  inspired  ire! 
The  brindled  panthers  know  the  prize  they  bear. 
And  harmonise  their  steps  with  stately  care; 
Bent  to  the  morning,  like  a  living  rose, 
The  immortal  splendour  of  his  face  he  shows. 
And  where  he  glances,  leaf  and  flower  and  wing 
Tremble  with  rapture,  stirred  in  their  repose. 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

ENVOI 

Prince  of  the  flute  and  ivy,  all  thy  foes 
Record  the  bounty  that  thy  grace  bestows. 
But  we,  thy  servants,  to  thy  glory  cling, 
And   with   no   frigid   lips  our  songs  compose. 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing. 

Edmund  Gosse 


CHANTS  ROYAL  277 

THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH 

(After  Holbein) 

"Contra  vim  Mortis 

Non  est  medicamen  in  hortis." 

He   is  the  despots'  Despot.     All  must  bide, 
Later  or  soon,  the  message  of  his  might; 
Princes  and  potentates  their  heads  must  hide. 
Touched  by  the  awful  sigil  of  his  right; 
Beside  the  Kaiser  he  at  eve  doth  wait 
And  pours  a  potion  in  his  cup  of  state; 
The  stately  Queen  his  bidding  must  obey; 
No  keen-eyed  Cardinal  shall  him  affray; 
And  to  the  Dame  that  wantoneth  he  saith — 
"Let  be.  Sweet-heart,  to  junket  and  to  play." 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than   Death. 

The  lusty  Lord,  rejoicing  in  his  pride, 
He  draweth  down;  before  the  armed  Knight 
With  jingling  bridle-rein  he  still  doth  ride; 
He  crosseth  the  strong  Captain  in  the  fight; 
The  Burgher  grave  he  beckons  from  debate; 
He  hales  the  Abbot  by  his  shaven  pate. 
Nor  for  the  Abbess'  wailing  will  delay; 
No  bawling  Mendicant  shall  say  him  nay; 
E'en  to  the  pyx  the  Priest  he  followeth. 
Nor  can  the  Leech  his  chilling  finger  stay. 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

All  things  must  bow  to  him.     And  woe  betide 

The  Wine-bibber, — the  Roisterer  by  night; 

Him  the  feast-master,  many  bouts  defied, 

Him  'twixt  the  pledging  and  the  cup  shall  smite; 

Woe  to  the  Lender  at  usurious  rate. 

The  hard  Rich  Man,  the  hireling  Advocate; 

Woe  to  the  Judge  that  selleth  right  for  pay; 


278  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Woe  to  the  Thief  that  like  a  beast  of  prey 
With  creeping  tread  the  traveller  harryeth: — 
These,  in  their  sin,  the  sudden  sword  shall  slay. 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity, — nor  will  be  denied. 

When  the  low  hearth  is  garnished  and  bright, 

Grimly  he  flingeth  the  dim  portal  wide. 

And  steals  the  Infant  in  the  Mother's  sight; 

He  hath  no  pity  for  the  scorned  of  fate: — 

He  spares  not  Lazarus  lying  at  the  gate, 

Nay,  nor  the  Blind  that  stumbleth  as  he  may; 

Nay,  the  tired  Ploughman, — at  the  sinking  ray, — 

In  the  last  furrow, — feels  an  icy  breath, 

And  knows  a  hand  hath  turned  the  team  astray. 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity.      For  the  new-made  Bride, 
Blithe  with  the  promise  of  her  life's  delight. 
That  wanders  gladly  by  her  Husband's  side. 
He  with  the  clatter  of  his  drum  doth  fright; 
He  scares  the  Virgin  at  the  convent  grate; 
The  Maid  half-won,  the  Lover  passionate; 
He  hath  no  grace  for  weakness  and  decay: 
The  tender  Wife,  the  Widow  bent  and  gray, 
The  feeble  Sire  whose  footstep  faltereth, — 
All  these  he  leadeth  by  the  lonely  way. 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


ENVOY 

Youth,  for  whose  ear  and  monishing  of  late, 

I  sang  of  prodigals  and  lost  estate, 

Have  thou  thy  joy  of  living  and  be  gay; 

But  know  not  less  that  there  must  come  a  day, — 

Aye,  and  perchance  e'en  now  it  hasteneth, — 

When  thine  own  heart  shall  speak  to  thee  and  say,- 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

Austin  Dobson 


CHANTS  ROYAL  279 


CHANT  OF  THE  CHANGING  HOURS 

The  Hours  passed  by,  a  fleet  confused  crowd; 

With  wafture  of  blown  garments  bright  as  fire, 
Light,  light  of  foot  and  laughing,  morning-browed, 

And  where  they  trod  the  jonquil  and  the  briar 
Thrilled  into  jocu.id  life,  the  dreaming  dells 
Waked  to  a  morrice  chime  of  jostled  bells; — 
They  danced;  they  danced;  to  piping  such  as  flings 
The  garnered  music  of  a  million  Springs 

Into  one  single,  keener  ecstasy; — 
One  paused  and  shouted  to  my  questionings: 

"Lo,  I  am  Youth;  I  bid  thee  follow  me!" 


The  Hours  passed  by;  they  paced,  great  lords  and  proud, 

Crowned  on  with  sunlight,  robed  in  rich  attire; 
Before  their  conquering  word  the  brute  deed  bowed, 

And  Ariel  fancies  served  their  large  desire; 
They  spake,  and  roused  the  mused  soul  that  dwells 
In  dust,  or,  smiling,  shaped  new  heavens  and  hells, 
Dethroned  old  gods  and  made  blind  beggars  kings: 
"And  what  art  thou,"  I  cried  to  one,  "that  brings 

His  mistress,  for  a  brooch,  the  Galaxy?" — 
"I  am  the  plumed  thought  that  soars  and  sings: 

"Lo;  I  am  Song;  I  bid  thee  follow  me!" 


The  Hours  passed  by,  with  veiled  eyes  endowed 

Of  dream,  and  parted  lips  that  scarce  suspire. 
To  breathing  dusk  and  arrowy  moonlight  vowed. 

South  wind  and  shadowy  grove  and  murmuring  lyre; — 
Swaying  they  moved,  as  drows'd  of  wizard  spells 
Or  tranc'd  with  sight  of  recent  miracles, 
And  yet  they  trembled,  down  their  folded  wings 
Quivered  the  hint  of  sweet  withholden  things, 

Ah,  bitter-sweet  in  their  intensity! 
One  paused  and  said  unto  my  wonderings: 

"Lo,  I  am  Love;  I  bid  thee  follow  me!" 


280  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  Hours  passed  by,  through  huddled  cities  loud 

With  witless  hate  and  stale  with  stinking  mire: 
So  cowled  monks  might  march  with  bier  and  shroud 

Down  streets  plague-spotted  toward  some  cleansing 
pyre;— 
Yet,  lo!   strange  lilies  bloomed  in  lightless  cells. 
And  passionate   spirits  burst  their  clayey  shells 
And  sang  the  stricken  hope  that  bleeds  and  clings: 
Earth's  bruised  heart  beat  in  the  throbbing  strings, 

And  joy  still  struggled  through  the  threnody! 
One  stern  Hour  said  unto  my  marvelings: 

"Lo,  I  am  Life;  1  bid  thee  follow  me!" 

The  Hours  passed  by,  the  stumbling  hours  and  cowed, 

Uncertain,  prone  to  tears  and  childish  ire, — 
The  wavering  hours  that  drift  like  any  cloud 

At  whim  of  winds  or  fortunate  or  dire, — 
The  feeble  shapes  that  any  chance  expels; 
Their  wisdom  useless,  lacking  the  blood  that  swells 
The  tensed  vein:  the  hot,  swift  tide  that  stings 
With  life.     Ah,  wise!  but  naked  to  the  slings 

Of  fate,  and  plagued  of  youthful  memory! 
A  cracked  voice  broke  upon  my  pityings: 

"Lo,  I  am  Age;  I  bid  thee  follow  me!" 

Ah,  Youth!  we  dallied  by  the  babbling  wells 
Where  April  all  her  lyric  secret  tells; — 
Ah,  Song!   we  sped  our  bold  imaginings 
As  far  as  yon  red  planet's  triple  rings; — 

O  Life!  O  Love!  I  followed,  followed  thee! 
There  waits  one  word  to  end  my  journeyings: 

"Lo,  I  am  Death;  I  bid  thee  follow  me!" 

Don  Marquis 

CHANT  ROYAL  OF  THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 

O  most  fair  God!     O  Love  both  new  and  old. 
That  wert  before  the  flowers  of  morning  blew, 

Before  the  glad  sun  in  his  mail  of  gold 
Leapt  into  light  across  the  first  day's  dew, 


CHANTS  ROYAL  281 

That  art  the  first  and  last  of  our  delight, 
That  in  the  blue  day  and  the  purple  night 

Holdest  the  hearts  of  servant  and  of  king, 

Lord  of  liesse,  sovran  of  sorrowing. 
That  in  thy  hand  hast  heaven's  golden  key, 

And  hell  beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  wing, 
TAou  art  my  Lord  to  whom  I  bend,  the  kneel 

What  thing  rejects  thy  mastery?     Who  so  bold 

But  at  thine  altars  in  the  dusk  they  sue? 
Even  the  strait  pale  Goddess,  silver-stoled, 

That  kissed  Endymion  when  the  spring  was  new. 
To  thee  did  homage  in  her  own  despite. 
When  in  the  shadow  of  her  wings  of  white 

She  slid  down  trembling  from  her  mooned  ring. 

To  where  the  Latmian  youth  lay  slumbering. 
And  in  that  kiss  put  off  cold  chastity. 

Who  but  acclaim,  with  voice  and  pipe  and  string, 
Thou  art  my  Lord  to  whom  I  bend  the  knee? 

Master  of  men  and  gods,  in  every  fold  ^ 

Of  thy  wide  vans,  the  sorceries  that  renew 
The  labouring  earth  tranced  with  the  winter's  cold 

Lie  hid,  the  quintessential  charms  that  woo 
The  souls  of  flowers,  slain  with  the  sullen  might 
Of  the  dead  year,  and  draw  them  to  the  light. 

Balsam  and  blessing  to  thy  garments  cling: 

Skyward  and  seaward,  whilst  thy  white  palms  fling 
Their  spells  of  healing  over  land  and  sea. 

One  shout  of  homage  makes  the  welkin  ring. 
Thou  art  my  Lord  to  whom  I  bend  the  kneel 

I  see  thee  throned  aloft:  thy  fair  hands  hold 

Myrtles  for  joy,  and  euphrasy  and  rue: 
Laurels  and  roses  round  thy  white  brows  rolled, 

And  in  thine  eyes  the  royal  heaven's  hue: 
But  in  thy  lips'  clear  colour,  ruddy  bright. 
The  heart's  blood  shines  of  many  a  hapless  wight. 

Thou  art  not  only  fair  and  sweet  as  Spring: 


282  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Terror  and  beauty,  fear  and  wondering, 
Meet  on  thy  front,  amazing  all  who  see — 

All  men  do  praise  thee — ay,  and  every  thing! 
Thou  art  my  Lord  to  whom  I  bend  the  kneel 

I  fear  thee,  though  I  love.     Who  can  behold 
The  sheer  sun  burning  in  the  orbed  blue, 

What  while  the  noontide  over  hill  and  wold 
Flames  like  a  fire,  except  his  mazed  view 

Wither  and  tremble?     So  thy  splendid  sight 

Fills  me  with  mingled  gladness  and  affright. 
Thy  visage  haunts  me  in  the  wavering 
Of  dreams,  and  in  the  dawn,  awakening, 

I  feel  thy  splendour  streaming  full  on  me. 
Both  joy  and  fear  unto  thy  feet  I  bring: 

Thou  art  my  Lord  to  who7?i  I  bend  the  knee! 

ENVOI 

God  above  gods.  High  and  Eternal  King! 
Whose  praise  the  symphonies  of  heaven  sing, 

I  find  no  whither  from  thy  power  to  flee 
Save  in  thy  pinions'  vast  o'ershadowing: 

Thou  art  my  Lord  to  zchom  I  bend  the  kneel 

John  Payne 

THE   DESTINED  MAID:  A   PRAYER 

(Chant  Royal) 

0  mighty  Queen,  our  Lady  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  music,  and  the  honey,  all 

Blent  in  one  Power,  one  passionate  Desire 

Man  calleth  Love — 'Sweet  love,'  the  blessed  call- 

1  come  a  sad-eyed  suppliant  to  thy  knee, 
If  thou  hast  pity,  pity  grant  to  me; 

If  thou  hast  bounty,  here  a  heart  I  bring 
For  all  that  bounty  'thirst  and  hungering. 

O  Lady,  save  thy  grace,  there  is  no  way 
For  me,  I  know,  but  lonely  sorrowing — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 


CHANTS  ROYAL  283 

I  lay  in  darkness,  face  down  in  the  mire, 

And  prayed  that  darkness  might  become  my  pall; 

The  rabble  rout  roared  round  me  like  some  quire 
Of  filthy  animals  primordial; 

My  heart  seemed  like  a  toad  eternally 

Prisoned  in  stone,  ugly  and  sad  as  he; 

Sweet  sunlight  seemed  a  dream,  a  mystic  thing, 
And  life  some  beldam's  dotard  gossiping. 

Then,  Lady,  I  bethought  me  of  thy  sway. 

And  hoped  again,  rose  up  this  prayer  to  wing — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

Lady,  I  bear  no  high  resounding  lyre 
To  hymn  thy  glory,  and  thy  foes  appal 

With  thunderous  splendour  of  my  rhythmic  ire; 
A  little  lute  I  lightly  touch  and  small 

My  skill  thereon:  yet.  Lady,  if  it  be 

I  ever  woke  ear-winning  melody, 

'Twas  for  thy  praise  I  sought  the  throbbing  string. 
Thy  praise  alone — for  all  my  worshipping 

Is  at  thy  shrine,  thou  knowest,  day  by  day. 
Then  shall  it  be  in  vain  my  plaint  to  sing?  — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

Yea!  why  of  all  men  should  this  sorrow  dire 

Unto   thy  servant  bitterly  befall? 
For,  Lady,  thou  dost  know  I  ne'er  did  tire 

Of  thy  sweet  sacraments  and  ritual; 
In  morning  meadows  I  have  knelt  to  thee. 
In  noontide  woodlands  hearkened  hushedly 

Thy  heart's  warm  beat  in  sacred  slumbering. 

And  in  the  spaces  of  the  night  heard  ring 
Thy  voice  in  answer  to  the  spheral  lay: 

Now  'neath  thy  throne  my  suppliant  life  I  fling — 
Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

I  ask  no  maid  for  all  men  to  admire, 

Mere  body's  beauty  hath  in  me  no  thrall. 

And  noble  birth,  and  sumptuous  attire. 

Are  gauds  I  crave  not — yet  shall  have  withal, 


284  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

With  a  sweet  difference,  in  my  heart's  own  She, 

Whom  words  speak  not  but  eyes  know  when  they  see. 
Beauty  beyond  all  glass's  mirroring, 
And  dream  and  glory  hers  for  garmenting; 

Her  birth — O  Lady,  wilt  thou  say  me  nay?  — 
Of  thine  own  womb,  of  thine  own  nurturing — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

ENVOI 

Sweet  Queen  who  sittest  at  the  heart  of  spring, 
My  life  is  thine,  barren  or  blossoming; 

'Tis  thine  to  flush  it  gold  or  leave  it  grey: 
And  so  unto  thy  garment's  hem  I  cling — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


CHANT  ROYAL  OF  AUGUST 

Queen,  thou  art  found  in  toiling — where  the  wheat 
Grows  ruddy-ripe  and  golden  in  the  ear. 

Where  the  scarlet  poppies  fall  and  faint  with  heat. 
Where  no  late  lark  is  left  to  call  or  hear. 

He  sang,  and  sings  not,  for  the  golden  haze 

Of  languorous  August  folds  him  in  a  maze. 
Fain  to  surcease  of  song;  and  he  must  bend 
To  the  Noon-Queen's  high  hesting;  he  must  lend 

His  myriad  music  to  the  murmurous  bee. 

Sole  singer  he,  who  doth  all  songs  transcend, 

The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 

Like  a  drift-snow  in  summer,  wide  wings  beat. 
Whiter  than  cups  of  lilies,  near  and  near 

Come  the  strong  ships  of  August,  winging  fleet — 
The  wandering  birds  that  all  the  North  holds  dear. 

O  stormy,  sharp  sea-wind,  that  smites  and  slays, 

Blow  soft  and  sighing  on  their  white  arrays. 
That  they  come  safe  before  thee  to  the  end. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  285 

Through  perilous  places  where  no  songs  ascend, 
And  shake  from  out  the  flowing  hair  of  thee, 

O  golden  Queen,  so  thou  thy  hosts  defend, 
The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 

In  the  deep  woodland  thou  hast  place  and  seat. 

Soft  eyes  like  flowers,  sweet  and  shy  with  fear, 
Come  laughing  round  thee;  and  thou  dost  entreat 

The  wild-eyed  water-kelpie  from  the  mere, 
Till  all  thy  court  of  dryads  and  of  fays 
Cry  fond  farewell  upon  the  summer  days, 

That  fade  like  flowers  whom  no  bees  attend; 

Full  days,  and  nights  of  beauty;  hither  wend 
The  weary  loves  that  wander  ceaselessly. 

Having  dead  hearts  for  comfort,  and  their  friend 
The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 

Thy  two  fair  hands  are  filled  with  largesse  meet. 
With  purple  grapes  and  radiant  apples  clear; 

With  golden  glowing  sunflowers,  good  to  greet 
As  thou  art,  fair  and  changing:  for  the  tear 

Wars  with  thy  lovely  laughter  as  it  plays 

From  thy  deep  eyes,  and  bright  brows  crowned  with  bays 
To  thy  most  radiant  mouth;  wherein  they  blend 
In  storm  or  sunshine  as  thy  heart  forefend; 

And  in  thy  light  hair  lying  royally 

Waits,  till  on  field  or  flower  thou  shalt  it  spend, 

The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 

Thou  standest  in  the  orchards  with  quick  feet. 
When  mellow  apples  from  old  boughs  and  sere 

Hang  tremulous;  that  ripen  ere  the  peat — 
A  flying  flame  of  purple  on  the  year — 

Grows  grey  for  burning  in  the  heather  ways. 

When  children  watch  for  windfalls  and  estrays; 
When  the  great  winds  are  gathering  to  rend 
In  hideous  wrath  and  ruin  none  shall  mend; 

But  yet  Queen  August  is  not  bond,  but  free. 

And  blowing  yet,  though  hitherward  tempests  trend, 

The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 


286  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


L  ENVOI 

Queen  August,  we  in  street  and  city  penned, 
Where  dreamless  nights  and  dolorous  days  offend, 

In  summer's  aftermath,  cry  wearily, 
Be  pitiful  to  hear  us,  and  to  send 

The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the  sea. 

EtAel  Talbot 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  MIST 

(Chant  Royal) 

I  waited  ^n  a  mountain's  midmost  side. 

The  lifting  of  a  cloud,  and  standing  there, 

Keeping  my  soul  in  patience  far  and  wide 
Beheld  faint  shadows  wandering,  felt  the  air 

Stirred  as  with  voices  which  in  passing  by 

Still  dulled  its  weary  weight  with  many  a  sigh. 
No  band  of  pilgrims  or  of  soldiers  they — 
These  children  of  the  mist — who  took  their  way. 

Each  one  aloof,  perplexed  and  pondering 
With  steps  untimed  to  music  grave  or  gayj — 
This  was  a  people  that  had  lost  Its  king. 

In  happier  days  of  old  it  was  their  pride 

To  serve  him  on  their  knee  and  some  were  'ware 
E'en  of  his  voice  or  presence  as  they  plied 

Their  daily  task,  or  ate  their  simple  fare. 
Now  in  new  glory  shrouded,  far  and  nigh 
He  had  withdrawn  himself  from  ear  and  eye; 
Scorning  such  service  as  they  knew  to  pay. 
His  ministers  were  as  the  golden  ray 

Shot   from    the   sun   when   he   would   wake   the 
spring, — 
Swift  to  perform  and  pliant  to  obey — 
This  was  a  people  that  had  lost  its  king. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  287 

Single  as  beasts,  or  if  allied,  allied 

But  as  the  wolf  who  leaves  his  dusky  lair 

To  hound  for  common  need,  which  scarce  supplied, 
He  lone  returns  with  his  disputed  share, — 

Even  so  sole,  so  scornful,  or  so  shy, 

Each  man  of  these  pursued  his  way  on  high, 

Still  high  and  higher,  seeking  through  the  grey 
Gloom  of  the  mist,  the  lord  of  yesterday. 
Dim,  serviceless,  bereft  and  sorrowing 
Shadows  continuing  never  in  one  stay; — 
This  was  a  people  that  had  lost  its  king. 

Then  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  none  descried 

The  longed-for  presence,  as  the  way  grew  bare, 

As  strength  declined,  and  hope  within  them  died, 
A  sad  new  birth, — the  fruit  of  their  despair, — 

Stirred  in  their  midst,  and  with  a  human  cry 

Awoke  a  human  love,  and  flushed  a  dry 

Sweet  spring  of  tears,  whose  fertilising  play 
Broke  up  the  hard  cold  barriers  of  their  clay, 

Till  hands  were  stretched  in  help,  or  seen  to  cling 

In  fealty  that  were  only  joined  to  pray; 

This  was  a  people  that  had  lost  its  king.  ■ 

So  blent  in  heart  and  hand,  so  myriad-eyed. 
With  gathering  power  and  ever  lessening  care. 

The  veiled  beguilements  of  the  way  defied 

They  cleave  the  cloud,  and  climb  that  mountain  fair; 

Till  lo!  upon  its  crown  at  last  they  vie 

In  songs  of  rapture  as  they  hail  the  sky. 

And  trace  their  lost  one  through  the  vast  array 
Of  tuneful  suns,  which  keep  not  now  at  bay 

Their  questing  love,  but  help  to  waft  and  wing; 
And  over  all  a  voice  which  seems  to  say. 
This  is  a  people  that  has  found  its  king! 

ENVOY 

Lord  of  our  lives!     Thou  scorned  us  that  day 
When  at  thy  feet  a  scattered  host  we  lay. 


288  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Behold  us  ONE!     One  mighty  heart  we  bring, 
Strong  for  thy  tasks,  and  level  to  thy  sway. 
This  was  the  people  that  had  lost  its  king! 

Emily  Pfeijfer 


KING  BOREAS 
(Chant    Royal) 

I  sit  enthroned  'mid  icy  wastes  afar. 

Beyond  the  level  land  of  endless  snow, 

For  months  I  see  the  brilliant  polar  star 

Shine  on  a  shore,  the  lonelier  none  may  know. 

Supreme  I  rule  in  monarchy  of  might, — 

My  realms  are  boundless  as  the  realms  of  Night. 
Proud  court  I  hold,  and  tremblingly  obey 
My  many  minions  from  the  isles  of  Day; 

And  when  my  heralds  sound  aloud,  behold 
My  slaves  appear  with  suppliant  heads  alway. 

I  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 


I  am  the  god  of  all  the  winds  that  are! 

I  blow  where'er  I  list, — I  come,  I  go. 
Athwart  the  sky  upon  my  cloud-capped  car 

I  rein  my  steeds,  swift-prancing  to  and  fro. 
The  dreary  woodlands  shudder  in  affright 
To  hear  my  clarion  on  the  mountain  height. 

The  sobbing  sea  doth  moan  in  pain,  and  pray, 

"Is  there  no  refuge  from  the  storm-king's  sway?" 
I  am  as  aged  as  the  earth  is  old. 

Yet  strong  am  I  although  my  locks  are  grey; 
I  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 


I  loose  my  chains,  and  then  with  awful  jar 
And  presage  of  disaster  and  dire  woe. 

Out  rush  the  storms  and  sound  the  clash  of  war 
'Gainst  all  the  earth,  and  shrill  their  bugles  blow. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  289 

I  bid  them  haste;  they  bound  in  eager  flight 

Toward  far  fair  lands,  where'er  the  sun's  warm  light 
Makes  mirth  and  joyance;  there,  in  rude  afi'ray, 
They  trample  down,  despoil,  and  crush  and  slay. 

They  turn  green  meadows  to  a  desert  wold. 
And  naught  for  rulers  of  the  earth  care  they; — 

I  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 

When  in  the  sky,  a  lambent  scimitar, 

In  early  eve  Endymion's  bride  doth  glow. 

When  night  is  perfect,  and  no  cloud  doth  mar 
The  peace  of  nature,  when  the  rivers'  flow 

Is  soft  and  musical,  and  when  the  sprite 

Whispers  to  lovers  on  each  breeze  bedight 
With  fragrance,  then  I  steal  forth,  as  1  may, 
And  seize  upon  whate'er  I  will  for  prey. 

I  see  the  billows  high  as  hilltops  rolled. 

And  clutch  and  flaunt  aloft  the  snowy  spray! 

1  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 

I  am  in  league  with  Death.      When  I  unbar 
My  triple-guarded  doors,  and  there  bestow 

Upon  my  frost-fiends  freedom,  bid  them  scar 
The  brightest  dales  with  summer  blooms  a-row. 

They  breathe  on  every  bower  a  deadly  blight. 

And  all  is  sere  and  withered  in  their  sight. 
Unheeded  now,  Apollo's  warming  ray 
Wakes  not  the  flower,  for  my  chill  breezes  play 

Where  once  soft  zephyrs  swayed  the  marigold. 
And  where  his  jargon  piped  the  noisy  jay, — 

1  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 

ENVOY 

O  Princes,  hearken  what  my  trumpets  say! — 
"Man's  life  is  naught,  no  mortal  lives  for  aye; 

His  might  hath  empire  only  of  the  mold," 
Boast  not  yourselves,  ye  fragile  forms  of  clay! 

1  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold. 

Clinton  Scollard 


290  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

THE  NEW  EPIPHANY 

(Chant  Royal) 

Awake,  awake,  nay,  slumber  not,  nor  sleep! 

Forth  from  the  dreamland  and  black  dome  of  night, 
.From  chaos  and  thick  darkness,  from  the  deep 

Of  formless  being,  comes  a  gracious  light. 
Gilding  the  crystal  seas,  and  casting  round 
A  golden  glory  on  the  enchanted  ground; — 

Awake,  O  souls  of  harmony,  and  ye 

That  greet  the  dayspring  with  your  jubilee 
Of  lute  and  harp!     Awake,  awake,  and  bring 

Your  well-tuned  cymbals,  and  go  forth  with  glee, 
Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal   king. 

Far  o'er  the  hills  have  not  the  watchful  sheep 

Espied  their  shepherd,  and  with  eager  flight 
Gone  forth  to  meet  him  on  the  craggy  steep; 

Hasting  the  while  his  summoning  notes  invite 
Where  riper  grasses  and  green  herbs  abound: — 
But  ye!   your  shepherd  calls,  thrice  happy  sound! 

He  comes,  he  comes,  your  shepherd  king,  'tis  he! 

Oh,  quit  these  close-cropped  meads,  and  gladly  flee 
To  him  who  makes  once  more  new  growths  upspring; 

Oh,  quit  your  ancient  glebes, — oh,  joyfully 
Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal  king. 

Too  long  ye  till  exhausted  lands  and  reap 

Thin  crops  that  ne'er  your  weary  toil  requite: 

Too  long  your  laggard  oxen  labouring  creep 
Up  the  wide  furrows,  and  full  idly  smite 

The  weed-encircled  ridge,  the  rocky  mound: 

Will  ye  not  quit  these  fields  now  barren  found? 
Ah!  ye  are  old,  yet  not  too  old  to  be 
Brave  travellers  o'er  bald  custom's  boundary; — 

Then  each,  let  each  his  robe  around  him  fling. 
And  with  his  little  one,  his  child,  set  free, 

Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal  king. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  291 

Sec,  on  the  strand,  watching  the  waves  that  sweep 

Their  creamy  ripples  up  the  sandy  bight. 
Your  child  waits,  leaping  as  the  wavelets  leap. 

The   faery  infant  of  the   infinite! 
Ah!  happy  child,  with  what  new  wonders  crowned 
He'll  turn  to  thee  to  fathom  and  expound; 

Asking,  enquiring,  looking  unto  thee 

To  solve  the  universe,  its  destiny; — 
And  still  unto  thy  vestment's  hem  will  cling, 

Asking,  enquiring, — whispering,  may  not  we 
Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal  king. 

Oh,  linger  not,  no  longer  vainly  weep 

O'er  vanished  hopes,  but  with  new  strength  unite; 

Oh,  linger  not!      But  let  your  glad  eyes  keep 
Watch  on  this  guiding  star  that  beams  so  bright; 

Around  your  brows  be  this  phylacter  bound, — 

Let  Truth  be  king  and  let  his  f raise  resound! 
Oh,  linger  not!      Let  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea. 
To  sound  his  praises  let  all  hearts  agree; 

Still  loud,  and  louder,  let  your  psans  ring. 
Go  forth,  go  forth,  in  glad  exultancy 

Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal  king. 

ENVOY 

Thou  art  the  king,  O  Truth!  we  bend  the  knee 
To  thee;  we  own  thy  wondrous  sovranty; 

And  still  thy  praises  in  our  songs  we'll  sing, 
Bidding  all  people  with  blithe  minstrelsy 

Go  forth,  and  welcome  the  eternal  king. 

Samuel  Waddington 


CHANT-ROYAL  OF  THE  TRUE  ROMANCE 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some,  and  so,  to-day. 
Honour  and  Chivalry  are  faint  and  cold; 

And  now,  Adventure  has  no  modern  way 
To  stir  the  blood,  as  in  the  days  of  old. 


292  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

They  mourn  the  times  of  Gallantry  as  done, 
Knighthood  has  seen  the  setting  of  its  sun, 
And  fairy,  nymph  and  genie,  grown  too  shy. 
No  more,   in   these  new   lands,   hold  revel  high; 

There  lives  no  mystery,  now,  and  they  cry  woe 
To  this  old  world,  so  twisted  and  awry! 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  I  say  No! 

Haroun-al-Raschid,  so  the  sceptics  say, 

Would  seek  in  vain  for  sights  his  book  has  told — 
Crusoe  could  find  no  island  far  away 

Enough,  his  life  with  glamour  to  enfold — 
Ulysses  now  might  rove,  nor  fear  to  run 
The  risks  of  perils  Homer's  fable  spun — 
And  Hiawatha's  white   canoe  would   try 
In  vain  to  find  some  beach,  whence  to  descry 

The  hunting-grounds  where  once  he  bent  his  bow. 
Gone  are  the  Halcyon  Days,  they  sadly  sigh; 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  I  say  No! 

Not  while  the  ancient  sea  casts  up  its  spray 

Upon  the  laughing  beach,  and  I  behold 
The  myriad  dancing  ripples  of  the  bay 

Speed  out  to  meet  the  sunset's  robe  of  gold; 
Not  till  the  last  ship's  voyage  has  begun; 
Not  till  the  storm  god's  lightnings  cease  to  stun! 
Not  till  the  mountains  lift  no  more  to  sky 
Their   secret    fastnesses,    and   forests   vie 

No  more  with  winds  and  mists,  with  sun  and  snow, 
And  rustling  fields  no  more  to  streams  reply! 

Roma'nce  is  dead,  say  some;  but  I  say  No! 

Not  while  the  Night  maintains  her  mystic  sway, 
And  conjures,  in  the  haunted  wood  and  wold. 

Her  eerie  shadows,   fanciful  and  fey. 

With  priests  of  Darkness,  pale  and  sombre-stoled ; 

Not  while  upon  the  Sea  of  Dreams  are  won 

Strange  ventures,  escapades,  and  frolic  fun; 

Where  tricksy  phantoms,  whimsically  sly, 


CHANTS  ROYAL  293 

Order  your  deeds,  you  know  not  how  nor  why; 

Where  Reason,  Wit,  and  Conscience  drunken  go. 
Have  you  e'er  dreamed,  and  still  can  question?     Fie! 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  1  say  No! 

Not  while  Youth  lives  and  Springtime  bids  be  gay! 

Not  while  love  blooms,  and  lovers  dare  be  bold! 
Not  while  a  poet  sings  his  roundelay. 

Or  men  by  maiden's  kisses  are  cajoled! 
You  have  not  seen  her,  or  you,  too,  would  shun 
The  thought  that  in  this  world  Romance  there's  none; 
For  oh,  my  Love  has  power  to  beautify 
My  whole  life  long,  and  all  its  charm  supply; 

My  bliss,  my  youth,  my  dreams,  to  her  I  owe! 
And  so,  ye  scornful  cynics,  I  deny; 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  1  say  No! 

ENVOY 

God,  keep  my  youth  and  love  alive,  that  1 
May  wonder  at  this  world  until   I   die! 

Let  sea  and  mountain  speak  to  me,  that  so, 
Waking  or  sleeping,  1  may  fight  the  lie; 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  1  say  No! 

Gelett  Burgess 


CHANT-ROYAL  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Onward  the  Nation  marches,  and  in  sight 

Of  this  far  Western  sea,  whose  ripples  glow 
Wide  towards  the  sunset,  with  its  staff  does  smite 

The  rock  of  Hope,  that  golden  streams  may  flow. 
This  is  our  Promised  Land,  beyond  compare 
The  most  prolific  Eden,  rich  and  fair! 
Here  may  we  lay  our  hearth-stones,  and  with  glee 
Of  new  possession,  and  with  song,  may  we 

Set  out  the  grape  and  fig,  and  seed-corn  strew. 
Ah,  gallant  husbandmen,  what  soil  have  ye! 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 


294-  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

O  maiden  West!     What  need  to  re-indite 

Her  beauties  and  her  blessings — all  men  know! 
The  day  rings  with  her  laughter  of  delight, 

All  of  earth's  good  she  has,  without  the  woe. 
The  joy  of  youth  is  hers — a  future  rare 
Is  hers  to  win,  to  foster  and  to  share; 
Strong,  reckless,  frank  and  jubilant  is  she, 
Holding  with  thoughtless  hand  her  fortune's  key; 

Yet,  underneath  her  sun  and  heavens  blue 
The  vine  shall  yield,  and  it  shall  come  to  be 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 

Bring  no  old  myths  to  exercise  their  might 

O'er  her  grey  mountains'  grim  defending  row; 
Let  the  past  heroes  linger  in  the  night. 

Nor  haunt  her  meadows,  where  wild  flowers  blow! 
False  gods  are  all  behind;  ah,  leave  them  there — 
Let  the  new  race  dare  breathe  her  fresher  air! 
Tribe  after  tribe  has  lived,  and  left  her  free; 
Aztec  and  Indian   hailed  Yosemite, 

Shasta  and  Tamalpais — the  Spaniard,  too. 
Passed  with  the  Russ;  but  'twas  her  fate's  decree 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 

Then  may  we  garner  nothing  but  the  Right, 

The  seeds  of  Error  may  we  never  sow! 
The  soil  is  virgin  and  the  sunshine  bright, 

The  glad  warm  rains  shall  teach  the  bud  to  grow. 
Strike  deep  the  furrow  straight  with  forthright  care 
And  gather  all  the  lavish  Seasons  bear; 
Then  shall  a  Nation  rise,  of  such  degree 
As  never  Argonaut  dared  hope  to  see! 

A  thousand  harvests  shall  not  half  subdue 
The  power  of  this  land's  abundant  fee; 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 

High  as  her  hills  shall  be  her  honour's  height, 
Deep  as  her  gorges  loyalty  shall  go; 

Broad  as  her  plains,  or  as  her  eagle's  flight 
Shall  be  the  Freedom  she  shall  then  bestow. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  295 

This  is  our  field;  so  gird  ye,  and  be  yare 
To  conquer  and  to  hold,  to  brave  and  dare 
The  perils  of  her  wealth — nor  bow  the  knee 
To  the  dead  laws,  nor  from  live  truths  to  flee! 

Thus,  only,  must  we  fare  the  long  years  through, 
If  the  land  fatten — and  be  this  our  plea: 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 

ENVOY 

O  Pioneer,  what  task  is  set  for  thee! 

Not  thine  to  taste  the  fruit,  but  plant  the  tree; 

The  years  of  strife  are  thine;  if  thou  art  true, 
Thy  sons'  sons  shall   enjoy  the  Jubilee; 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew! 

Gelett  Burgess 


BALLADE  OF  FAREWELL  * 

New  roads  to  fare,  new  toils  to  overthrow. 

New  fields,  made  rich  with  fern  and  floweret. 

And  beckoning  seas  where  brave  winds  merrily  blow 
Over  the  sun-bright  waves  of  dawn — and  yet, 
Never  one  sun  rose  but  another  set.  .  .  . 

Wherefore,  beseech  you,  count  me  not  as  they 

Who  shun  the  venture  and  avoid  the  fray. 

Though  1  should  pause  within  the  empty  hall. 

By  the  old  hearth  bow  down  to  dream  and  pray, 
And  bid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all. 

Dim  elms  deepen  the  summer  gloom  below, 
Tangling  the  drowsy  breeze  in  a  soft  net 

Of  slowly  waving  leaves;  an  amber  glow 
Streams  out  of  many  windows,  over  wet 
Green  grass,  gray  tower,  and  vine-hung  parapet; 

And  careless  gusts  of  song  start  up,  and  stray 

*  Copyright   1915  by  Brian  Hooker. 


296  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Among  the  shadows;  the  city's  distant  bray 
Softens;  and  happy  voices  clash  and  call 

One  to  another,  as  I   turn  away, 

And  bid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all. 


Youth,  and  high  hearts  welcoming  friend  and  foe, 
Careless  of  fear  or  failure;  the  clear  jet 

And  rainbow-spray  of  joyance;  and  the  flow 
Of  easy  slumber  to  a  morning  met 
Blithely,   fresh-eyed;    madrigal,   canzonet, 

Drink  with  glad  boys  and  dance  with  maidens  gay, 

Scorn  of  such  laws  as  weaker  souls  obey — 

Carouse,  adventure,  dalliance,  tryst,  and  brawl — 

Must  we  disown  the  sweetness  of  their  sway. 
And  bid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all? 


These  things  are  ebbing  from  us:  and  although 
It  is  more  wise  to  frolic  than  to   fret, 

Good  to  strew  garlands  on  the  grave  of  woe. 
Good  to  drink  deep  of  laughter,  and  forget 
Weariness,  and  chill  twilights,  and  the  debt 

Inexorable  that  even  we  must  pay 

Who  in  the  House  of  Life  rejoice  to  stay — 
Nevertheless,  we  find  the  banquets  pall. 

See  the  leaves  wither,  and  the  lights  turn  gray, 
And  bid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all. 


Wherefore,   with   half  my  days  foregone,   I  go 
Now  to  begin  true  labour.      I  regret 

Only  the  song  unborn,  the  unbent  bow 

Whose  quarry  leaps  unscathed.     Nor  dare  I  let 
My  heart  shrink  from  the  turmoil  and  the  sweat; 

For  even  already  have  I  seen   decay 

The  glamour  and  dew-freshness  of  the  May 
And  felt  a  weary  body  faint  and  fall, 

Remembering  how   I   must   fear   delay. 
And  bid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all. 


CHANTS  ROYAL  297 


ENVOI 


Princes  of  Mirth!     Let  no  power  disarray 
The  pageants  and  fair  trappings  of  our  play, 

Until  we  turn  our  faces  to  the  wall, 
Smile  down  the  glimmering  slopes  of  yesterday, 

And  Lid  at  last  a  long  farewell  to  all. 

Brian  Hooker 


RONDELS 


RONDEL 

Charhi  D'Orleans,  1391-1465 

To  his  Mistress,  to  succour  his  heart  that  is  beleaguered 

by  jealousy. 

Strengthen,  my  Love,  this  castle  of  my  heart. 
And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid, 

For  Jealousy,  with  all  them  of  his  part, 

Strong  siege  about  the  weary  tower  has  laid.  - 
Nay,  if  to  break  his  bands  thou  art  afraid. 

Too  weak  to  make  his  cruel  force  depart. 

Strengthen  at  least  this  castle  of  my  heart. 
And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid. 

Nay,  let  not  Jealousy,  for  all  his  art 
Be  master,  and  the  tower  in  ruin  laid. 
That  still,  ah  Love!  thy  gracious  rule  obeyed. 

Advance,  and  give  me  succour  of  thy  part; 

Strengthen,  my  Love,  this  castle  of  my  heart. 

Andrew  Lang 

RONDEL 

(After  Charles  d^ Orleans) 

The  world  has  cast  her  habiting 
Of  wind,  of  frost,  of  cold  grey  rain; 
In  sunny  robes  of  braver  grain 
She  dons  the  broidery  of  Spring 
And  every  tiny  living  thing 
In  his  own  way  declares  amain: 
"The  world  has  cast  her  habiting 
Of  wind,  of  frost,  of  cold  grey  rain." 
301 


302  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  streams  and  brooks  the  tidings  bring 
Wearing  their  liveries  again 
Of  gold  and  silver;  Winter  slain, 
April  may  laugh  aloud,  and  sing: 
"The  world  has  cast  her  habiting 
Of  wind,  of  frost,  of  cold  grey  rain." 

Christo-pher  Morley 


FROM  THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE 


NIGHT 

We  bless  the  coming  of  the  Night, 

Whose  cool  sweet  kiss  has  set  us  free, 

Life's  clamour  and  anxiety 
Her  mantle  covers  out  of  sight. 
All  eating  cares  have  taken  flight. 

The  scented  air  is  wine  to  me; 
We  bless  the  coming  of  the  Night, 

Whose  cool  sweet  kiss  has  set  us  free. 
Rest  now,  O  reader,  worn  and  white. 

Driven  by  some  divinity. 

Aloft,  like  sparkling  hoar  frost  see, 
A  starry  ocean  throb  in  light. 
We  bless  the  coming  of  the  Night. 

II 

THE    MOON 

The  moon,  with  all  her  tricksy  ways, 
Is  like  a  careless  young  coquette, 
Who  smiles,  and  then  her  eyes  are  wet. 

And  flies  or  follows  or  delays. 

By  night,  along  the  sand-hills'  maze. 
She  leads  and  mocks  you  till  you  fret. 

The  moon  with  all  her  tricksy  ways. 
Is  like  a  careless  young  coquette. 


RONDELS  303 

As  oft  she  veils  herself  in  haze, 

A  cloak  before  her  splendour  set; 

She  is  a  silly  charming  pet, 
We  needs  must  give  her  love  and  praise, 
The  moon  with  all  her  tricksy  ways, 

Arthur  Reed  Rofes 


UPON  THE  STAIR  I  SEE  MY  LADY  STAND 

(Rondel) 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 
And,  like  the  laughing  sunbeam  on  the  lawn. 

The  radiant  smile  by  which  her  lips  are  spanned. 

A  chiselled  marvel  seems  her   slender  hand 
What  time  she  waves  it  ere  my  steps  are  gone; 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand, 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 

Through  the  green  covert  that  the  breeze  has  fanned 
She  fleets  as  graceful  as  the  flexile  fawn; 
She  is  the  star  to  which  my  soul  is  drawn 

When  shadows  drive  the  daylight  from  the  land. 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand, 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 

Clinton  ScoUard 


READY  FOR  THE  RIDE— 1795 
(Rondel) 

Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride, 
As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her, 

With  joy  of  Love  that  has  fond  Hope  to  bride. 
One  year  ago  had  made  her  pulses  stir. 


304  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Now  shall  no  wish  with  any  day  recur 
(For  Love  and  Death  part  year  and  year  full  wide), 
Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride, 

As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her. 

No  ghost  there  lingers  of  the  smile  that  died 
On  the  sweet  pale  lip  where  his  kisses  were — 

Yet  still  she  turns  her  delicate  head  aside, 

If  she  may  hear  him  come,  with  jingling  spur — 

Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride. 
As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her. 

H.  C.  Bunner 


RONDEL 

Kiss  me,  sweetheart,  the  Spring  is  here. 
And  Love  is  lord  of  you  and  me! 
The   bluebells  beckon   each   passing  bee; 

The  wild  wood  laughs  to  the  flowered  year; 

There  is  no  bird  in  brake  or  brere 
But  to  his  little  mate  sings  he, 

"Kiss  me,  sweetheart,  the  Spring  is  here, 

And  Love  is  lord  of  you  and  me." 

The  blue  sky  laughs  out  sweet  and  clear; 
The  missel-thrush  upon   the  tree 
Pipes  for  sheer  gladness  loud  and  free; 
And   I  go   singing  to  my  dear, 
"Kiss  me,  sweetheart,  the  Spring  is  here. 
And  Love  is  lord  of  you  and  me!" 

JoAn  Payne 


RONDELS  305 


"AWAK^,  AWAKE!"* 

Awake,   awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door! 

The  chilling  breezes  make  him  smart; 
His   little   feet  are   tired   and   sore. 

Arise,  and  welcome  him  before 

Adown   his  cheeks  the  big  tears  start: 
Awake,    awake,    O   gracious   heart, 

There's  some  one   knocking  at  the  door! 

'Tis  Cupid  come  with   loving  art 
To  honor,  worship,   and   implore; 

And   lest,    unwelcomed,   he    depart 
With    all   his   wise,   mysterious  lore, 

Awake,   awake,   O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman 


RONDEL 

This  book  of  hours   Love  wrought 
With   burnished   letters   gold; 

Each  page   with   art  and  thought, 
And  colours  manifold. 

His  calendar  he  taught 

To  youths  and  virgins  cold; 

This  book  of  hours  Love  wrought 
With   burnished  letters  gold. 

This  priceless  book  is  bought 
With  sighs  and  tears  untold, 


*  Used  by  permission  of  and  by  arrangement  with  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


306  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Of  votaries  who  sought 
His  countenance  of  old — 

This  book  of  hours  Love  wrought 
With   burnished   letters  gold. 

Walter  Crane 


RONDEL 


When  time  upon  the  wing 
A   swallow  heedless  flies, 

Love-birds  forget  to  sing 
Beneath   the  lucent  skies. 

For  now  belated  spring 
With  her  last  blossom  hies, 

When  time  upon  the  wing 
A  swallow  heedless  flies. 

What  summer  hope  shall  bring 
To  wistful  dreaming  eyes? 

What  fateful  forecast  fling 
Before  life's  last  surprise, 

When   time   upon    the  wing 
A  swallow  heedless  flies? 

Walter  Crane 


RONDEL 

I  love  you  dearly,  O  my  sweet! 
Although  you  pass  me  lightly  by, 
Although   you   weave   my   life   awry, 

And  tread  my  heart  beneath  your  feet. 

I  tremble  at  your  touch ;  I  sigh 
To  see  you  passing  down  the  street; 
I  love  you  dearly,  O  my  sweet! 

Although  you  pass  me  lightly  by. 


RONDELS  307 

You  say  in  scorn  that  love's  a  cheat, 

Passion   a  blunder,  youth  a  lie. 
I  know  not.      Only  when  we  meet 

I  long  to  kiss  your  hand  and  cry, 
"I  love  you  dearly,  O  my  sweet, 

Although  you  pass  me  lightly  by." 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

"VITAS  HINNULEO" 

You  shun  mc,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother 

Through  trackless  woods.      If  spring-winds  sigh. 
It  vainly  strives  its  fears  to  smother  j — 

Its  trembling  knees  assail  each  other 
When  lizards  stir  the  bramble  dry; — 
You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

And  yet  no  Libyan  lion  I, — 

No  ravening  thing  to  rend  another; 
Lay  by  your  tears,  your  tremors  by — 

A  Husband's  better  than  a  brother; 
Nor  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

Austin  Dob  son 


THE  WANDERER 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling, — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore! 
We  see  him  stand  by  the  open  door, 

With  his  great  eyes  sad,  and  his  bosom  swelling. 

He  makes  as  though  in  our  arms  repelling. 
He  fain  would  lie  as  he  lay  before; — 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling, — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore! 


308  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Ah,  who  shall  help  us  from  over-spelling 
That  sweet,  forgotten,  forbidden  lore! 
E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  heart  once  more, 
With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyelids  welling, 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. 

Austin  Dobson 


TWILIGHT 

Someone  has  lit  the  lamp,   and  hung 
The  house  with  curtains  of  cool  blue, 
Someone  (I  cannot  tell  you  who) 
Has  put  bright  candles  all  amon 
Our  empty  rooms.      Since  we  are  young 

For  keeping  house,  and  only  twQ, > 

Someone  has  lit  the  lamp,  and  hung  / 
The  house  with  curtains  of  cool  blue_j^. 
Our  lamp,  the  moon  so  deftly  swung 
Aloft;  the  stars  our  candles  new; 
Our  housekeeper?      I  have  no  clue 
I  only  know  what  I  have  sung —     -^ 
Someone  has  lit  the  lamp,  and  hung" 
The  house  with  curtains  of  cool  blue. 

C hristofher  Morley 


RONDEL   OF   PERFECT   FRIENDSHIP 

Friend  of  my  soul,  forever  true, 
What  do  we  care  for  flying  years, 
Unburdened  all   by  doubts  or   fears, 

Trusting  what   naught   can   e'er  subdue? 

Fate  leads!      Her  path   is  out  of  view; 

Nor  time  nor   distance  interferes! 
Friend  of  my  soul,  forever  true, 

What  do  we  care  for  flying  years? 


RONDELS  309        S^ 

^ 

For,  planted  when   the  world  was  new, 

In  other  lives,  in  other  spheres, 

Our   love   to-day  a  bud  appears — 
Not  yet   the   blossom's   perfect  hue. 
Friend  of  my  soul,  forever  true! 

Gelett  Burgess 

SINCE  I  AM  SWORN  TO  LIVE  MY  LIFE* 

Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life 
And  not  to  keep  an  easy  heart. 
Some  men  may  sit  and  drink  apart, 
I   bear   a   banner   in   the   strife. 

Some    can    take    quiet    thought    to    wife, 
I  am  all  day  at  tierce  and  carte, 
Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life 
And   not   to    keep   an    easy   heart. 

I    follow    gaily    to    the    fife. 
Leave   Wisdom    bowed    above   a    chart, 
And   Prudence   brawling    in    the   mart. 
And  dare  Misfortune   to   the   knife, 
Since   I   am   sworn    to   live   my   life. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

WE'LL  WALK  THE  WOODS  NO  MORE  f 

Nous  Wlrons  Plus  au  Bois 

We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 
But   stay  beside   the   fire, 
To  weep  for  old  desire 
And   things  that   are   no   more. 

The  woods  are  spoiled  and  hoar. 
The   ways   are    full    of   mire; 
We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 
But  stay  beside  the  fire. 

*  From  T/ie  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  Graham 
Balfour.  Copyright  1901  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Pub- 
lishers. 

t  From  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  Sidney  Colvin. 
Copyright   1911  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


310  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

We  loved,  in   days  of  yore, 
Love,    laughter,    and    the    lyre. 
Ah  God,   but  death   is  dire, 
And  death  is  at  the  door — 
We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


FAR  HAVE  YOU  COME,  MY  LADY,  FROM 
THE  TOWN* 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town. 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please, 
To  smell  the  good  sea-winds  and  hear  the  seas, 
And  in  green  meadows  lay  your  body  down. 

To  find  your  pale  face  grow  from  pale  to  brown, 
Your  sad  eyes  growing  brighter  by  degrees; 
Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town. 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please. 

Here  in  this  seaboard  land  of  old  renown. 
In  meadow  grass  go  wading  to   the   knees; 
Bathe  your  whole  soul  a  while  in  simple  ease; 
There  is  no  sorrow  but  the  sea  can  drown; 
Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

VARIATIONS 


"Alons  au  bois  le  may  cueillir." — Charles   D'Orleans. 

We'll  to  the  woods  and  gather  may 
Fresh  from  the  footprints  of  the  rain; 
We'll  to  the  woods,  at  every  vein 

To  drink  the  spirit  of  the  day. 

*  From  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  Sidney  Colvin. 
Copyright   1911   by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


RONDELS  311 

The  winds  of  spring  arc  out  at  play, 

The  needs  of  spring  in  heart  and  brain. 
We'll   to  the  woods  and  gather  may 

Fresh  from  the  footprints  of  the  rain. 
The  world's  too  near  her  end,  you  say?  — 

Hark  to  the  blackbird's  mad  refrain! 

It  waits  for  her,  the  vast  Inane?  — 
Then,  girls,  to  help  her  on  the  way 
We'll   to  the  woods  and  gather  may. 

W.  E.  He?tley 


II 

"Ainsi  qu'  aux  fleurs  la  vieillesse, 
Fera  ternir  votre   beautc." — RoNSARD. 

And  lightly,  like  the  flowers, 

Your  beauties  Age  will   dim. 

Who  makes  the  song  a  hymn, 
And  Lurns  the  sweets  to  sours! 

Alas!    the  chubby  Hours 

Grow  lank  and  grey  and  grim, 
And  lightly,   like   the  flowers. 

Your  beauties  Age  will   dim. 

Still  rosy  are  the  bowers, 

The  walks  yet  green  and  trim. 

Among  them  let  your  whim 
Pass  sweetly,  like  the  showers. 
And  lightly,  like  the  flowers. 

W.  E.  Henley 

ROUNDELS  OF  THE  YEAR* 

/  caught  the  chattges  of  the  year 
In  soft  and  fragile  nets  of  songy 
For  you  to  zvho??t  my  days  belong. 

*  Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


312  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

For  you  to  whom  each  day  is  dear 
Of  all  the  high  frocessional  throngs 
I  caught  the  changes  of  the  year 
In  soft  and  fragile  nets  of  song. 

And  here  some  sound  of  beauty,  here 
Some  note  of  ancient,  ageless  wrong 
Re-shaftng  as  my  lifs  were  strong 
I  caught  the  changes  of  the  year 
In  soft  and  fragile  nets  of  song. 
For  you  to  whom  my  days  belong. 


The  spring  is  passing  through  the  land 
In  web  of  ghostly  green   arrayed, 
And  blood  is  warm  in  man  and  maid. 

The  arches  of  desire  have  spanned 
The  barren  ways,  the  debt  is  paid, 

The  spring  is  passing  through  the  land 
In  web  of  ghostly  green  arrayed. 

Sweet  scents  along  the  winds  are  fanned 
From  shadowy  wood  and  secret  glade 
Where  beauty  blossoms  unafraid. 

The  spring  is  passing  through  the  land 
In  web  of  ghostly  green  arrayed, 
And  blood  is  warm   in  man  and  maid. 


II 


Proud  insolent  June  with  burning  lips 
Holds  riot  now  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  shod  in  sovran  gold  is  she. 

To  the  full  flood  of  reaping  slips 
The  seeding-time  by  God's  decree. 

Proud  insolent  June  with  burning  lips 
Holds  riot  now  from  sea  to  sea. 


RONDELS  313 

And  all   the  goodly  fellowships 

Of  bird  and  bloom  and  beast  and  tree 

Are  gallant  of  her  company — 

Proud  insolent  June  with  burning  lips 

Holds  riot  now  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  shod  in  sovran  gold  is  she. 

HI 

The  loaded  sheaves  are  harvested, 
The  sheep  are  in  the  stubbled  fold. 
The  tale  of  labour  crowned  is  told. 

The  wizard  of  the  year  has  spread 

A  glory  over  wood  and  wold. 

The  loaded  sheaves  are  harvested, 
The  sheep  are  in  the  stubbled  fold. 

The  yellow  apples  and  the  red 
Bear  down  the  boughs,  the  hazels  hold 
No  more  their  fruit  in  cups  of  gold. 
The  loaded  sheaves  are  harvested, 
The  sheep  are  in  the  stubbled  fold, 
The  tale  of  labour  crowned   is  told. 

IV 

The  year  is  lapsing   into  time 
Along  a  deep  and  songless  gloom, 
Unchapleted  of  leaf  or  bloom. 

And  mute  between  the  dusk  and  prime 
The  diligent  earth  re-sets  her  loom, — 

The  year  is  lapsing  into  time 

Along  a  deep  and  songless  gloom. 

While  o'er  the  snows  the  seasons  chime 
Their  golden  hopes  to  re-illume 
The  brief  eclipse  about   the  tomb, 

The  year  is  lapsing  into  time 

Along  a  deep  and  songless  gloom, 

Unchapleted  of  leaf  or  bloom. 


314  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Not   wise   as   cunning   scholars  are, 
With  curious  words  ufon  your  tongue. 
Are  you  for  whom  my  song  is  sung. 


But  you  are  wise  of  cloud  and  star, 
And  winds  and  boughs  all  blossom-hung. 
Not  wise  as  cufining  scholars  are. 
With  curious  words  ufon  your  tongue. 


Surely,   clear  child  of  earth,   some  far 
Dim  Dryad-haunted  groves  among. 
Your  lifs  to  lifs  of  knowledge  clung — 
Not  wise  as  cunning  scholars  are, 
With  curious  words  ufon  your  tongue. 
Are  you  for  whom,  my  song  is  sung. 

John  Drinkwater 


RONDELS 


The  lilacs  are  in  bloom, 
All  is  that  ever  was, 
And  Cupids  peep  and  pass 

Through  the  curtains  of  the  room. 


Season  of  light  perfume, 
Hide  all  beneath  thy  grass. 

The  lilacs  are  in  bloom, 
All  is  that  ever  was. 


Dead   hopes   new   shapes   assume; 
Town  belle  and  country  lass 
Forget   the  word   "Alas," 

For  over  every  tomb 

The  lilacs  are  in  bloom. 


RONDELS  315 


II 


Summer  has  seen   decay 
Of  roses  white  and  red, 
And  Love  with  wings  outspread 

Speeds  after  yesterday. 

Blue  skies  have  changed  to  grey, 
And  joy  has  sorrow  wed: 

Summer  has  seen  decay 
Of  roses  white  and  red. 

May's  flowers  outlast  not  May; 

And  when  the  hour  has  fled, 

Around  the  roses  dead 
The  mournful  echoes  say — 
Summer  has  seen  decay. 

George  Moore 


O  HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS  HILL* 
Rondel 

(Dobsori's   Variation) 

O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste, 

Wert  here  for  the  soft  amorous  bill 
Of   Aphrodite's   courser   placed? 

Thy  musky  scent  what  virginal  chaste 
Blossom  was  ravished  to  distill, 
O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste? 

*From    Tlie  PoeiJis  of  H.  C.  Burvier.     Copyright,    1917,  by 
Charles    Scribner's    Sons. 


316  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

What  upturned  calyx  drank  its  fill 

When  ran  the  draught  divine  to  waste, 

That  her  white  hands  were  doomed  to  spill — 
Sweet   Hebe,    fallen    and    disgraced — 

O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste? 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 


RONDEL  FOR  SEPTEMBER 

You    thought    it   was   a    falling    leaf   we    heard: 
I  knew  it  was  the  Summer's  gypsy  feet, 
A  sound  so  reticent  it  scarcely  stirred 
The   ear,   so  still   a  message   to   repeat, — 
"I  go,  and  lo,  I  make  my  going  sweet." 
What  wonder  you  should  miss  so  soft  a  word? 
You  thought  it  was  a  falling  leaf  we  heard: 
1  knew  it  was  the  Summer's  gypsy  feet. 

With  slender  torches  for  her  service  meet 
The  golden-rod   is   coming;   softer  slurred 
Midsummer   noises   take    a   note    replete 
With  hint  of  change;  who  told  the  mocking-bird? 
I  knew  it  was  the  Summer's  gypsy  feet — 
You  thought  it  was  a  falling  leaf  we  heard. 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 


"BEFORE  THE  DAWN" 

Before  the  dawn  begins  to  glow, 

A  ghostly  company   I   keep; 

Across  the  silent  room  they  creep. 
The   buried   forms  of  friend   and  foe. 
Amid  the  throng  that  come  and  go. 

There  are  two  eyes  that  make  me  weep; 
Before  the  dawn  begins  to  glow, 

A  ghostly   company   I    keep. 


RONDELS  317 

Two  dear  dead  eyes.      I    love   them   so! 

They  shine  like  starlight  on  the  deep; 

And  often  when   I   am   asleep 
They  stoop  and   kiss  me,  bending  low, 

Before   the   dawn  begins   to  glow, 

Samuel  Minium  Peck 


TWO  RONDELS 


When  on  the  mid  sea  of  the  night, 

I   waken   at   thy  call,   O   Lord. 

The  first  that  troop  my  bark  aboard 
Are  darksome  imps  that  hate  the  light. 
Whose  tongues  are  arrows,  eyes  a  blight — 

Of  wraths  and  cares  a  pirate  horde — 
Though  on   the  mid   sea  of   the   night 

It  was  thy  call   that  waked  me,   Lord. 

Then  I  must  to  my  arms  and  fight — 

Catch  up  my  shield  and  two-edged  sword, 
The  words  of  him  who  is  thy  word; 
Nor  cease  till  they  are  put  to  flight: — 
Then  in  the  mid  sea  of  the  night 
I   turn  and  listen   for  thee.  Lord. 


II 


There  comes  no  voice  from  thee,  O  Lord, 

Across  the  mid  sea  of  the  night! 

I  lift  my  voice  and  cry  with  might: 
If  thou  keep  silent,  soon  a  horde 
Of   imps  again  will   swarm  aboard, 

And   I   shall  be   in  sorry  plight 
If  no  voice  come  from  thee,  O  Lord, 

Across  the  mid  sea  of  the  night. 


318  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

There  comes  no  voice;   I  hear  no  word! 
But  in  my  soul  dawns  something  bright: — 
There  is  no  sea,  no  foe  to  fight! 
Thy  heart  and  mine  beat  one  accord: 
1  need  no  voice  from  thee,  O  Lord, 
Across  the  mid  sea  of  the   night. 

George  Macionald, 

RONDEL 

(After  Anyte  of  Tegea.) 

Underneath  this  tablet  rest. 
Grasshopper  by  autumn  slain, 
Since  thine  airy  summer  nest  (u 

Shivers  under  storm  and  rain.  _^_ 

Freely  let   it  be  confessed 
Death  and  slumber  bring  thee  gain; 
Spared  from  winter's  fret  and  pain. 
Underneath  this  tablet  rest. 

Myro  found  thee  on  the  plain, 
Bore    thee    in    her    lawny    breast. 
Reared  this  .  .arble  tomb  amain 
To  receive  so  small  a  guest! 
Underneath  this  tablet  rest, 
Grasshopper    by    autumn    slain. 

Edmund  Gosse 


EARTH  LOVE 

If  there    should   be    a   sound   of   song 
Among  the  leaves  when  I  am  dead, 
God  grant  I  still  may  hear  it  sped. 
And  may  I   never  pass  along 
Unmoved  of  that   sweet  goodlihead, 
//  there  should  be  a  sound  of  wng 
Among  the  leaves  when  I  am  dead. 


RONDELS  319 

And  may  I  never  know  the  wrong 

Of  cancelled  memory  of  shed 

Soft  petals  of  the  roses  red — 

//  tAere  should  be  a  sound  of  song 
Among  the  leaves  to  hen  I  am  dead, 
God  grant  I  still  7nay  hear  it  sfed. 

John  Drinkwater 


RONDEL 

The  ways  of  Death  are  soothing  and  serene, 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet. 
From  camp  and  church,  the  fireside  and  the  street, 

She  signs  to  come,  and  strife  and  song  have  been. 

A  summer  night  descending,  cool  and  green 

And  dark,  on  daytime's  dust  and  stress  and  heat. 

The  ways  of  Death  are  soothing  and  serene. 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet. 

O  glad  and  sorrowful,  with  triumphant  mien 
And  hopeful   faces  look  upon  and  greet 
This  last  of  all  your  lovers,  and  to  meet 

Her  kiss,  the  Comforter's,  your  spirit  lean.  .  .  . 

The  ways  of  Death  are  soothing  and  serene. 

W,  E.  Henley 


RONDEAUS 


THE  RONDEAU 

Your  rondeau's  tale  must  still  be  light — 

No  bugle-call  to  life's  stern  fight! 
Rather   a   smiling    interlude 
Memorial  to  some  transient  mood 

Of  idle  love  and  gala-night. 

Its  manner  is  the   merest  sleight 
O'   hand;   yet   therein   dwells   its   might, 
For  if  the  heavier  touch  intrude 
Your  rondeau's  stale. 

Fragrant  and  fragile,  fleet  and  bright, 
And  wing'd  with  whim,  it  gleams  in  flight 
Like  April   blossoms  wind-pursued 
Down  aisles  of  tangled  underwood; — 
Nor  be  too  serious  when  you  write 
Your  rondeau's  tale. 

Don  Marquis 

FANCIES  IN  FILIGREE 

— Strambotti  of  Alessandro  de  Medici. 

XXIV 

"Guarda  negli  occhi  la  nostra  regina" 

My  Lady's  Eyes  Remembrance  bring 
Of  lyttel  Waves  whose  Wavering 
Beneathe  ye  roving  Summer  Breeze 
Makes  scintillant  hushed  Summer  Seas 
Whenas  ye  Sun  is  vanishing. 
2>2Z 


32+  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

They  gladden  me,  as  when  in  Spring 
We  sing  &  knowe  not  why  we  sing. 
In  sooth,  there  be  noe  Eyes  like  these 
My  Lady's  Eyes. 

Whenas  their  Glance  is  threatening 
They  frighten  Cupid,  &  that  King 
From  Florimel  a-quaking  flees; 
But  when  they  soften,  on  hys  Knees 
Love  falls  before  them  worshipping 
My  Lady's  Eyes. 

"Rime  d'amore  usar  dolci  e  leggiadre" 

Ye  little  Rhyme  I  swore  last  Night 
To  lay  before  ye  Eyes  so  bright 
I  have  long  loved — &  loved  too  well! — 
So  now  ye  Muses  to  compell, 
&  shapely  Phrases  to  indite. 

Which   shall    it  be?— Ye   Villanelle, 
Ode,  Triolet,  Rondeau,  Rondel, 
Ballade,  or  Sonnet? — Each  is  hight 
Ye  littel  Rhyme. 

Yet  none  will  aide  my  hapless  Plight: 
All  little  Rhymes  are  short  &  slight, 
&  of  ye  Charmes  of  Florimel 
An  Epick's  Length  alone  can  tell, — 
So  that  of  her  I  may  not  write 
Ye  lyttel  Rhyme. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


RONDEAUS  325 

AFTER  WATTEAU 
(To  F.  W.) 

*'Embarguons-nous!"  I  seem  to  go 

Against  my  will.  'Neath  alleys  low 
1  bend,  and  hear  across  the  air — 
Across  the  stream — faint  music  rare, — 

Whose  ^'cornemuse,"  whose  "cAalumeau"? 

Hark!  was  not  that  a  laugh  I  know? 
Who  was  it,  hurrying,  turned  to  show 
The  galley  swinging  by  the  stair?  — 
'^  Embarquons-nous !" 

The   silk   sail   flaps,   light   breezes  blow; 
Frail  laces  flutter,  satins  flow; 

You,  with  the  love-knot  in  your  hair, 
'■'■  Allans,  embarquofis  four  Cythere^^ ; 
You  will  not?      Press  her,  then,  Pierrot, — 
'■'■  Embarquons-nousV 

Austin  Dob  son 


A  GREETING 
(To  W.  C.) 

But  once  or  twice  we  met,  touched  hands. 

But  to-day  between  us  both  expands 
A  waste  of  tumbling  waters  wide, — 
A  waste  by  me  as  yet  untried, 

Vague  with  the  doubt  of  unknown  lands. 

Time  like  a  despot  speeds  his  sands: 
A  year  he  blots,  a  day  he  brands; 

We  walked,  we  talked  by  Thamis'  side 
But  once  or  twice. 


326  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

What  makes  a  friend?     What  filmy  strands 
Are  these  that  turn  to  iron  bands? 
What  knot  is  this  so  firmly  tied 
That  naught  but  Fate  can  now  divide?  — 
Ah,  these  are  things  one  understands 
But  once  or  twice! 

Austin  Dobson 

"WHEN  BURBADGE  PLAYED" 

(To  L.   B.) 

When  Burbadge  played,  the  stage  was  bare 
Of  fount  and  temple,  tower  and  stair; 

Two  backswords  eked  a  battle  out; 

Two   supers  made   a   rabble   rout; 
The  Throne  of  Denmark  was  a  chair! 

And  yet,  no  less,  the  audience  there 
Thrilled  through  all  changes  of  Despair, 
Hope,  Anger,  Fear,  Delight,  and  Doubt 
When  Burbadge  played! 

This  is  the  Actor's  gift;  to  share 
All  moods,  all  passions,  nor  to  care 
One  whit  for  scene,  so  he  without 
Can  lead  men's  minds  the  roundabout, 
Stirred  as  of  old  those  hearers  were 

When  Burbadge  played! 

Austin  Dobson 

TO  DAFFODILS 

(To  A.  J.  M.) 

O  yellow  flowers  that  Herrick  sung! 

O  yellow  flowers  that  danced  and  swung 
In  Wordsworth's  verse,  and  now  to  me, 
Unworthy,  from  this  "pleasant  lea," 

Laugh  back,  unchanged  and  ever  young; — 


RONDEAUS  327 

Ah,  what  a  text  to  us  o'erstrung, 
O'erwrought,  overreaching,  hoarse  of  lung, 
You  teach  by  that  immortal  glee, 
O  yellow  flowers! 

We,  by  the  Age's  oestrus  stung. 
Still  hunt  the  New  with  eager  tongue, 
Vexed  evei   with  the  Old,  but  ye. 
What  ye  have  been  ye  still  shall  be. 
When  we  are  dust  the  dust  among, 
O  yellow  flowers! 

Austin  Dob  son 


"O  FONS  BANDUSI^" 

O  babbling  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear, 
Worthy  of  wreath  and  cup  sincere. 
To-morrow  shall   a   kid  be  thine 
With  swelled  and  sprouting  brows  for  sign,- 
Sure  sign! — of  loves  and  battles  near. 

Child  of  the  race  that  butt  and  rear! 
Not  less,  alas!  his  life-blood  dear 

Must  tinge  thy  cold  wave  crystalline, 
O  babbling   Spring! 

Thee  Sirius  knows  not.     Thou  dost  cheer 
With  pleasant  cool  the  plough-worn  steer, — 
The  wandering  flock.     This  verse  of  mine 
Will  rank  thee  one  with  founts  divine; 
Men  shall  thy  rock  and  tree  revere, 
O  babbling  Spring! 

Austin  Dobson 


328  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

"WITH  PIPE  AND  FLUTE" 

(To  E.  G.) 

With  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 
Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man; 

And  wonder  hushed  the  warbling  bird, 
And  closer  drew  the  calm-eyed  herd, — 
The  rolling  river  slowlier  ran. 

Ah!  would, — ah!   would,  a  little  span, 
Some    air   of   Arcady    could    fan 

This  age  of  ours,  too  seldom  stirred 
With  pipe  and  flute! 

But  now  for  gold  we  plot  and  plan; 
And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 
Apollo's  self  might  pass  unheard. 
Or  find  the  night-jar's  note  preferred; — 
Not  so  it  fared,  when  time  began. 
With  pipe  and  flute! 

Austin  Dobson 

"FAREWELL,   RENOWN!" 

Farewell,  Renown!     Too  fleeting  flower, 
That  grows  a  year  to  last  an  hour; — 
Prize  of  the  race's  dust  and  heat, 
Too  often  trodden  under  feet, — 
Why  should   I   court  your  "barren   dower"? 

Nay; — had   I   Dryden's  angry  power, — 
The  thews  of  Ben, — the  wind  of  Gower, — 
Not  less  my  voice  should  still  repeat 
"Farewell,   Renown!" 

Farewell! — Because  the  Muses'  bower 
Is  filled  with  rival  brows  that  lower; — 
Because,  howe'er  his  pipe  be  sweet. 
The  Bard,  that  "pays,"  must  please  the  street;- 


RONDEAUS  329 

But  most  .  .  .  because  the  grapes  are  sour, — 
Farewell,  Renown! 

Austin  Dob  son 

"ON   LONDON   STONES" 

On  London  stones  I  sometimes  sigh 

For  wider  green   and   bluer  sky; — 

Too  oft  the  trembling  note  is  drowned 
In    this  huge   city's   varied   sound; — 

"Pure  song  is  country-born" — I  cry. 

Then  comes  the  spring, — the  months  go  by, 
The  last  stray  swallows  seaward  fly; 
And  I — I  too! — no  more  am  found 
On  London  stones! 

In  vain! — the  woods,  the  fields  deny 
That  clearer  strain  I  fain  would  try; 
Mine  is  an  urban  Muse,  and  bound 
By  some  strange  law  to  paven  ground; 
Abroad  she  pouts; — she  is  not  shy 
On  London  stones! 

Austin  Dobson 


"IN  AFTER  DAYS" 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high 
O'ertop  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie. 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honour'd   dust, 
I  shall  not  question  nor  reply. 

I   shall   not  see  the  morning  sky; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  night-wind  sigh; 
I  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days! 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  would  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 


330  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Saying — He  held  his  fen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust. 
Will  none? — 'Then  let  my  memory  die 

In  after  days! 

Austin  Dob  son 

"WHEN  FINIS  COMES" 

When  Finis  comes,  the  Book  we  close, 
And  somewhat  sadly,  Fancy  goes, 

With  backward  step,  from  stage  to  stage 
Of  that  accomplished  pilgrimage  .  .  . 
The  thorn  lies  thicker  than  the  rose! 

There  is  so  much  that  no  one  knows, — 
So  much  un-reached  that  none  suppose; 
What  flaws!  what  faults! — on  every  page, 
When  Fi7iis  comes. 

Still, — they  must  pass!      The  swift  Tide  flows. 
Though  not  for  all  the  laurel  grows. 
Perchance,  in  this  be-slandered  age, 
The  worker,  mainly,  wins  his  wage; — 
And  Time  will  sweep  both  friends  and  foes 
When  Finis  comes! 

Austin  Dob  son 

TO  AUSTIN  DOBSON 

AFTER     HIMSELF 

[Rondeau   of   Villon] 

At  sixty  years,  when  April's  face 

Retrieves,   as  now,    the   winter's  cold. 
Where  tales  of  other  Springs  are  told 

You  keep  your  courtly  pride  of  place. 

Within  the  circle's  charmed  space 
You  rest  unchallenged,  as  of  old, 
At  sixty  years. 


RONDEAUS  331 

Not  Time  nor  Silence  sets  its  trace 
On  golden  lyre  and  voice  of  gold; 
Our  Poets'  Poet,  still  you  hold 
The  laurels  got  by  no  man's  grace — 
At  sixty  years. 

Sir  Owen  Seaman 


RONDEL 

Kissing  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  wound  and  found  it  sweet, 
Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound  and  found  her  fair, 
Kissing  her  hair. 


Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me. 
Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea; 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  love  not  relish  worse? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  death  had  kissed  me  there. 
Kissing  her  hair? 

Algernon  Charles  Sivinburne 


RONDEAU 

His  poisoned  shafts,  that  fresh  he  dips 
In  juice  of  plants  that  no  bee  sips, 
He  takes,  and  with  his  bow  renown'd 
Goes  out  upon  his  hunting  ground, 
Hanging  his  quiver  at  his  hips. 


He  draws  them  one  by  one,  and  clips 
Their  heads  between  his  finger-tips, 
And  looses  with  a  twanging  sound 
His  poisoned  shafts. 


332  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

But  if  a  maiden  with  her  lips 
Suck  from  the  wound  the  blood  that  drips, 
And  dr.ink  the  poison  from  the  wound, 
The  simple  remedy  is  found 
That  of  their  deadly  terror  strips 
His  poisoned  shafts. 

Robert  Bridges 

RONDEAU 


For  too  much  love  'tis  soothly  said 
There  is  no  cure  will  stand  in  stead: 
Deadly  the  baits  that  first  decoy; 
And  where  we  look  to  find  our  joy 
Is  all  our  pain  and  sorrow  bred. 


^ 


Think  not  thyself  the  first  misled! 

Many  ere  thou  have  fought  and  bled,     -^ 

Or  pined  away  of  slow  annoy 

For  too  much  love.  & 

And  who  has  not  the  old  tale  read, 
Of  how  the  flower  of  Hellas  shed 
Their  hearts'  blood  on  the  plains  of  Troy,  'A-' 
And  that  fair  city  did  destroy,  j  — 

And  laid  her  heroes  with  the  dead        Qy 
For  too  much  love?  v-~^ 

Robert  Bridges 

RONDEAU  * 

If  Love  should  faint,  and  half  decline 
Below  the  fit  meridian  sign, 

And  shorn  of  all  his  golden  dress, 

His  royal  state  and  loveliness. 
Be  no  more  worth  a  heart  like  thine. 
Let  not  thy  nobler  passion  pine, 
But  with  a  charity  divine, 

Let  Memory  ply  her  soft  addresr 
If  Love  should  faint j 


RONDEAUS  333 

And  oh!  this  laggard  heart  of  mine, 
Like  some  halt  pilgrim  stirred  with  wine, 
Shall  ache  in  pity's  dear  distress, 
Until  the  balms  of  thy  caress 
To  work  the  finished  cure  combine 
If  Love  should  faint. 

Edmund  Gosse 


FORTUNATE  LOVE 

FIRST    SIGHT 

When  first  we  met  the  nether  world  was  white,  "^ ' 
And  on  the  steel-blue  ice  before  her  bower -tiL 
I  skated  in   the  sunrise  for  an  hour,  -^ 

Till  all  the  grey  horizon,  gulphed  in  light,  ^■ 

Was  red  against  the  bare  boughs  black  as  night; 
Then  suddenly  her  sweet  face  like  a  flower. 
Enclosed  in  sables  from  the  frost's  dim  power. 

Shone  at  her  casement,  and  flushed  burning  bright 

When  first  we  met! 

My  skating  being  done,  I  loitered  home,  ' 

And  sought  that  day  to  lose  her  face  again; 
But  Love  was  weaving  in  his  golden  loom 
My  story  up  with  hers,  and  all  in  vain 
I  strove  to  loose  the  threads  he  spun  amain. 

When  first  we  met. 

Ed7?iund  Gos5& 


EXPECTATION 

When  flower-time  comes  and  all  the  woods  are  gay, 
When  linnets  chirrup  and  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Adown   the  winding  river  I  will  row, 

And  watch  the  merry  maidens  tossing  hay. 


334  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  troops  of  children  shouting  in  their  play, 
And  with  my  thin  oars  flout  the  fallen  snow 
Of  heavy  hawthorn-blossom  as  I  go, — 

And  shall  I  see  my  love  at  fall  of  day 

When   flower-time   comes? 

Ah,  yes!  for  by  the  border  of  the  stream 

She  binds  red  roses  to  a  trim  alcove. 
And  I  may  fade  into  her  summer-dream 
Of  musing  upon  love, — nay,  even  seem 
To  be  myself  the  very  god  of  love. 

When  flower-time  comes! 

Edmund  Gosse 

IN    THE    CRASS 

Oh!  flame  of  grass,  shot  upward  from  the  earth, 
Keen  with  a  thousand  quivering  sunlit  fires. 
Green  with  the  sap  of  satisfied  desires 

And  sweet  fulfilment  of  your  sad  pale  birth, 

Behold!    1   clasp  you  as  a  lover  might, 

Roll  on  you,  bathing  in   the  noonday  sun, 
And,  if  it  might  be,  I  would  faiii  be  one 

With  all  your  odour,  mystery  and  light, 

Oh,  flame  of  grass! 

For  here,  to  chasten  my  untimely  gloom. 

My  lady  took  my  hand,  and  spoke  my  namej 
The  sun  was  on  her  gold  hair  like  a  flame; 
The  bright  wind  smote  her  forehead  like  perfume; 

The  daisies  darkened  at  her  feet;  she  came, 
As  Spring  comes,  scattering  incense  on  your  bloom 

Oh,  flame  of  grass! 

Edmund  Gosse 

BY    THE    WELL 

Hot  hands  that  yearn  to  touch  her  flower-like  face, 
With  fingers  spread,  I  set  you  like  a  weir 
To  stem  this  ice-cold  stream  in   its  career, — 

And  chill  your  pulses  there  a  little  space; 


RONDEAUS  33  5 

Brown  hands,  what  right  have  you  to  claim  the  grace 

To  touch  her  head  so  infinitely  dear? 

Learn  courteously  to  wait  and  to  revere, 
Lest  haply  ye  be  found  in  sorry  case. 

Hot  hands  that  yearn! 

But  if  ye  pluck  her  flowers  at  my  behest, 

And  bring  her  crystal  water  from  the  well, 
And  bend  a  bough  for  shade  when  she  will  rest. 
And  if  she  find  you  fain  and  teachable. 
That  flower-like  face,  perchance,  ah!  who  can  tell 
In  your  embrace  may  some  sweet  day  be  pressed. 

Hot  hands  that  yearn! 

Edmund  Gosse 

A    GARDEN-PIECE 

Among  the  flowers  of  summer-time  she  stood, 
And  underneath  the  films  and  blossoms  shone 
Her  face,  like  some  pomegranate  strangely  grown 

To  ripe  magnificence  in  solitude; 

The  wanton  winds,  deft  whisperers,  had  strewed 
Her  shoulders  with  her  shining  hair  outblown. 
And  dyed  her  breast  with  many  a  changing  tone 

Of  silvery  green,  and  all  the  hues  that  brood 

Among  the  flowers; 

She  raised  her  arm  up  for  her  dove  to  know 

That  he  might  preen  him  on  her  lovely  head; 
But  I,  unseen,  and  rising  on   tiptoe. 
Bowed  over  the  rose-barrier,  and  lo! 

Touched  not  her  arm,  but  kissed  her  lips  instead, 

Among  the  flowers! 

Edmund  Gosse 

lover's  quarrel 

Beside  the  stream  and  in  the  alder-shade. 
Love  sat  with  us  one  dreamy  afternoon. 
When  nightingales  and  roses  made  up  June, 

And  saw  the  red  light  and  the  amber  fade 


336  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Under  the  canopy  the  willows  made, 

And  watched  the  rising  of  the  hollow  moon, 
And  listened  to  the  water's  gentle  tune, 

And  was  as  silent  as  she  was,  sweet  maid. 

Beside  the  stream; 

Till  with  "Farewell!"  he  vanished  from  our  sight, 
And  in  the  moonlight  down  the  glade  afar 
His  light  wings  glimmered  like  a  falling  star; 
Then  ah!  she  took  the  left  path,  I  the  right. 
And  now  no  more  we  sit  by  noon  or  night 

Beside  the  stream! 
Edmund  Gosse 


UNDER    THE    APPLE-TREE 

Against  her  breast  I  set  my  head,  and  lay 
Beneath  the  summer  fruitage  of  a  tree. 
Whose  boughs  last  spring  had  borne  for  her  and  me 

The  fleeting   blossom   of  a   doubtful   day; 

That  rose  and  white  had  tasted  swift  decay, 
And  now  the  swelling  fruits  of  certainty 
Hung  there  like  pale  green  lamps,  and  fair  to  see, 

And  I  was  strong  to  dream  the  hours  away 

Against  her  breast: 

Her  satins  rustled  underneath  my  head, 

Stirred  by  the  motions  of  her  perfect  heart, 
But  she  was  silent,  till  at  last  she  said, — 
While  all  her  countenance  flushed  rosy-red, — 
"Dear  love!  oh!  stay  forever  where  thou  art. 

Against  my  breast!" 

Edmund  Gosse 


"IN  LOVE'S  DISPORT" 

In  love's  disport,  gay  bubbles  blown 

On  summer  winds  light- freighted  flown: 


RONDEAUS  337 

A  child  intent  upon  delight 
The  painted  spheres  would  keep  in  sight, 
Dissolved  too  soon  in  worlds  unknown. 

Lo!   from  the  furnace  mouth  hath  grown 
Fair  shapes,  as  frail;  with  jewelled  zone. 
Clear  globes  where  fate  may  read  aright 
In  love's  disport. 

O  frail  as  fair!  though  in  the  white 
Of  flameful  heat  with  force  to  fight, 
Art  thou  hy  careless  hands  cast  down 
Or  killed,  when  frozen  hearts  disown 
The  children  born  of  love  and  light. 

In  love's  disport. 
Walter  Crane 


"WHAT  MAKES  THE  WORLD?" 

What  makes  the  world,  Sweetheart,  reply? 

A  space  of  lawn,  a  strip  of  sky, 

The  bread  and  wine  of  fellowship, 
The  cup  of  life  for  love  to  sip, 

A  glass  of  dreams  in  Hope's  blue  eye; 


So  let  the  days  and  hours  go  by. 
Let  Fortune  flout,  and  Fame  deny, 
With  feathered  heel  shall  fancy  trip- 
What  makes  the  world? 


The  wealth  that  never  in  the  grip 
Of  blighting  greed  shall  heedless  slip, — 
When  bought  and  sold  is  liberty. 
With  worth  of  life  and  love  gone  by — 
What  makes  the  world? 

Walter  Crane 


338  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


RONDEAU 

"Lady,  I  offer  nothing — I  am  yours." 

— Colofnbe's  Birthday, 

Wilt  thou  have  words,  when  silence  deep 

So  sweet  a  secret  still  may  keep. 

And  breathe  into  thy  soul  from  mine 

A  wordless  message  so  divine 

It  makes  the  heart  of  music  leap?  — 

Such  silence  like  celestial  sleep, 
Hath  visions,  where,  beyond  the  steep 
Dark  ways  of  words,  all  things  are  thine: — 
Wilt  thou  have  words? 

Dost  thou  then  doubt,  or  fear  to  reap 
The  ripened  harvest? — Let  me  sweep 
All  doubts  away:  ask  thou  no  sign — 
Look  in  the  eyes  that  now  incline 
Their  silence  tow'rd  thee!     Dost  thou  weep? 
Wilt   thou   have   words? 

Annie  Matheson 


"WITHOUT  ONE  KISS" 

Without  one  kiss  she's  gone  away. 
And  stol'n   the  brightness  out  of   day; 
With  scornful  lips  and  haughty  brow 
She's  left  me  melancholy  now, 
In  spite  of  all  that  I  could  say. 

And  so,  to  guess  as  best  I  may 
What  angered  her,  awhile  I  stay 
Beneath  this  blown  acacia  bough, 
Without  one   kiss; 

Yet  all   my  wildered  brain   can  pay 
My  questioning,  is  but  to  pray 


RONDEAUS  339 

Persuasion  may  my  speech  endow, 
And  Love  may  never  more  allow 
My  injured  sweet  to  sail  away 
Without  one   kiss. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

VIS  EROTIS 

(Rofideau) 

Love  that  holdeth  firm  in  fee 

Many  a  lord  of  many  a  land, 
From  thy  thraldom  few  would  flee; 
Wide  the  wondrous  potency 

Of  thy  heart-enchaining  hand. 

Since  on  shining  Cyprian  sand 
Did  thy  mother,  Venus,  stand, 

Man  and  maid  have  worshipped  thee, 

Love. 

They  that  scorn  thy  slaves  to  be. 

Oft  before  thy  throne,  unmanned, 
Grant  thy  great  supremacy; 

Hear  my  prayer,  O  Monarch,  and 
Let  my  lady  smile  on   me, 

Love. 
Clinton  S  col  lard 

MIGHT  LOVE  BE  BOUGHT 

Might  Love  be  bought,  I  were  full  fain 
My  all  to  give  thy  love  to  gain. 

Yet  would  such  getting  profit  naught; 

Possession  with  keen  fears  were  fraught, 
Would  make  even  love's  blisses  vain. 

For  who  could  tell  what  god  might  deign 
His  golden  treasures  round  thee  rain. 
Till  ruin  on  my  hopes  were  brought. 
Might  Love  be  bought. 


340  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Better  a  pensioner  remain 
On  thy  dear  grace,  since  to  attain 
To  worthiness  in  vain  I  sought. 
Thy  kindness  hath  assurance  wrought 
Could   never    be   between    us   twain 
Might  Love  be  bought. 

Arlo  Bates 

IN  THY  CLEAR  EYES 

In  thy  clear  eyes,  fairest,  I  see 

Sometimes  of  love  a  transient  glow; 
But  ere  my  heart  assured  may  be, 
With  cold  disdain  thou  mockest  me: 
Hope  fades  as  songs  to  silence  flow. 

Ah!  most  bewitching,  mocking  she, 

Fairer  than  poet's  dream  may  show, 
The  glance  of  scorn  how  can  I  dree 
In   thy  clear  eyes? 

Life  is  so  brief,  and  to  and  fro, 
Like  thistledown  above  the  lea. 

Fly  on  poor  days;  why  then  so  slow 
To  bend  from  pride?      Let  us  bliss  know 
Ere   age   the   light   dims   ruthlessly 
In  thy  clear  eyes. 

Arlo  Bates 

RONDEAU 

One  of  these  days,  my  lady  whispcreth, 
A  day  made  beautiful  with  Summer's  breath, 
Our  feet  shall  cease  from  these  divided  ways. 
Our  lives  shall  leave  the  distance  and  the  haze 
And  flower  together  in  a  mingling  wreath. 
No  pain  shall  part  us  then,  no  grief  amaze, 
No  doubt  dissolve  the  glory  of  our  gaze; 
Earth  shall  be  heaven  for  us  twain,  she  saith. 
One  of  these  days. 


RONDEAUS  341 

Ah,  love,  my  love!     Athwart  how  many  Mays 
The  old  hope  lures  us  with  its  long  delays! 

How  many  winters  waste  our  fainting  faith! 
I  wonder,  will  it  come  this  side  of  death, 
With  any  of  the  old  sun  in  its  rays. 
One  of  these  days? 

JoAn  Payne 

IF  LOVE  COULD  LAST* 

If  love  could  last,  I'd  spend  my  all 
And  think  the  price  were  yet  too  small 
To  buy  his  light  upon  my  way, 
His  ain  to  turn  my  night  to  day, 
His  cheer  whatever  might  befall. 

Were  I  his  slave,  or  he  my  thrall. 
No  terrors  should  m)    heart  appal; 
I'd  fear  no  wreckage  or  dismay 
If   love   could  last. 

Heaven's  lilies  grow  up  white  and  tall. 
But  warm  within  earth's  garden  wall 
With  roses  red  and  soft  winds  play — 
Ah,  might  I  gather  them  to-day! 
My  hands  should  never  let  them  fall. 
If  love  could  last. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

RONDEAU 

To  Elaine 

For  you  alone  how  shall  I  write 

A  message  from  all  others'  sight 

Concealed,  though  every  passer  took 
His  glance  within  this  little  book. 

Where'er  it  wing  its  wandering  flight? 

*  From    Poems    and    Sonnets    by    Louise    Chandler    Moulton. 
Copyright  1909,  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Publishers. 


342  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

I  would  not  rhyme  you  wishes  trite 
Of  health  and  wealth  as  others  might} 
Your  praise  demands  a  secret  nook 
For  you  alone! 

There,  served  by  one  rapt  acolyte, 
A  lamp  shall  show,  in  Time's  despite. 
Its  flame  by  winter  winds  unshook — 
Can  you  divine  where  you  must  look 
To  see  this  shrine  that  glows  so  bright 
For  you  alone? 

Gareth  Manh  Stanton 


ALL  LOVELY  THINGS 

All  lovely  things  conspire  to  greet 
My  lady:  daisies  at  her   feet 

Sprang  white  and  wistfully  implored 
Her  plucking;  and  with  one  accord 
The  sunsets  for  her  smile  compete. 

The  stars,  in  many  a  silver  fleet, 
Set  sail  each  night  in  hopes  to  meet 
Her  eyes,  that  graciously  reward 
All    lovely    things. 

All  gay  and  gentle  thoughts  entreat 
Her  favour  and  approval  sweet; 

All  sorrow,  when  to  her  outpoured, 
Is  by  her  sympathy  restored: 
She  finishes  and  makes  complete 
All  lovely  things. 

Christopher  Morley 


RONDEAU 

Ah,  Manon,  say,  why  is  it  we 
Are  one  and  all  so  fain  of  thee? 


RONDEAUS  343 

Thy  rich  red  beauty  debonnaire 
In  very  truth  is  not  more  fair, 
Than  the  shy  grace  and  purity 
That  clothe  the  maiden  maidenly; 
Her  gray  eyes  shine  more  tenderly 
And  not  less  bright  than  thine  her  hair, 

Ah,  Manon,  say! 
Expound,  1  pray,  the  mystery 
Why  wine-stained  lip  and  languid  eye, 
And  most  unsaintly  Ma:nad  air, 
Should  move  us  more  than  all  the  rare 
White    roses   of   virginity? 

Ah,  Manon,  say! 

Ernest  Dow  son 

TO   TAMARIS 

It  is  enough  to  love  you.     Let  me  be 
Only  an  influence,  as  the  wandering  sea 

Answers  the  moon  that  yet  foregoes  to  shine; 

Only  a  sacrifice,  as  in  a  shrine 
The   lamp  burns  on  where  dead  eyes  cannot  see; 
Only  a  hope  unknown,  withheld  from  thee, 
Yet  ever  like  a  petrel  plaintively, 

Just  following  on  to  life's  faf  twilight  line, 

It  is  enough. 

Go  where  you  will,  I  follow.      You  are  free. 
Alone,  unloved,  to  all  eternity 

I  track  that  chance  no  virtue  can  divine. 
When  pitiful,  loving,  with   fond  hands  in  mine, 
You  say:  "True  heart,  here  take  your  will  of  me, 

It  is  enough." 

Theo.   Marzials 

O  SCORN   ME   NOT 

O  scorn  me  not,  although  my  worth  be  slight. 
Although  the  stars  alone  can  match  thy  light. 


344  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Although  the  wind  alone  can  mock  thy  grace, 
And  thy  glass  only  show  so  fair  a  face — 
Yet — let  me  find  some  favour  in  thy  sight. 

The  proud  stars  will  not  bend  from  their  chill  height, 
Nor  will  the  wind  thy  faithfulness  requite. 
Thy  mirror  gives  thee  but  a  cold  embrace. 

O  scorn  me  not. 

My  lamp  is  feeble,  but  by  day  or  night 
It  shall  not  wane,  and,  but  for  thy  delight. 
My  footsteps  shall  not  for  a  little  space 
Forego  the  echo  of  thy  tender  pace, — 
I  would  so  serve  and  guard  thee  if  I  might. 

O  scorn  me  not. 

Cosmo  Monkhouse 


MY  LOVE  TO  ME 

My  love  to  me  is  always  kind: 
She  neither  storms,  nor  is  she  pined; 
She  does  not  plead  with  tears  or  sighs, 
But  gentle  words  and  soft  replies — 
Dear  earnests  of  the  thought  behind. 

They  say  the  little  god  is  blind. 

They  do  not  count  him  quite  too  wise; 
Yet  he,  somehow,  could  bring  and  bind 

My  love  to  rae. 

And  sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind? 
It  may  be  so;  but  she  I  prize 
Is  even  lovelier  in  mine  eyes 
Than  good  and  gracious  to  my  mind. 
I  bless  the  fortune  that  consigned 

My  love  to  me. 

W.  E.  Henley 


RONDEAUS  345 


IF  I  WERE  KING 


If  I  were  king — ah,  love,  if  I  were  king! 
What  tributary  nations  would  I  bring 
To  stoop  before  your  sceptre  and  to  swear 
Allegiance  to  your  lips  and  eyes  and  hair. 
Beneath  your  ieet  what  treasures  1  would  fling: — 
The  stars  should  be  your  pearls  upon  a  string, 
The  world  a  ruby  for  your  finger  ring. 
And  you  should  have  the  sun  and  moon  to  wear 
If  I  were  king. 

Let  then  wild  dreams  and  wilder  words  take  wing, 

Deep  in  the  woods  I  hear  a  shepherd  sing 

A  simple  ballad  to  a  sylvan  air, 

Of  love  that  ever  finds  your  face  more  fair. 

I  could  not  give  you  any  godlier  thing 

If  I  were  king. 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

IF  I  WERE  KING 

If  I  were  king,  my  pipe  should  be  premier. 
The  skies  of  time  and  chance  are  seldom  clear, 

We  would  inform  them  all  with  bland  blue  weather. 
Delight  alone  would  need  to  shed  a  tear. 

For  dream  and  deed  should  war  no  more  together. 

Art  should  aspire,  yet  ugliness  be  dear; 

Beauty,  the  shaft,  should  speed  with  wit  for  feather; 
And  love,  sweet  love,  should  never  fall  to  sere. 

If  I  were  king. 

But  politics  should  find  no  harbour  near; 

The  Philistine  should  fear  to  slip  his  tether; 
Tobacco  should  be  duty  free,  and  beer; 

In  fact,  in  room  of  this,  the  age  of  leather. 
An  age  of  gold  all  radiant  should  appear. 

If  I  were  king. 

W.  E.  Henley 


346  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


LOVE  IN  LONDON 

In  London  town  men  love  and  hate, 
And  find  Death  tragic  soon  or  late, 
Just  in  the  old  unreasoning  way, 
As  if  they  breathed  the  warmer  day 
In  Athens  when  the  gods  were  great. 

Mine  is  the  town  by  Thames's  spate, 
And  so  it  chanced  I  found  my  fate, 
One  of  my  fates,  that  is  to  say — 
In  London  town. 

The  whole  world  comes  to  those  who  wait; 
Mine  came  and  went  with  one  year's  date. 
Pity  it  made  so  short  a  stay! 
The  sweetest  face,  the  sweetest  sway 
That  ever  Love  did  consecrate 

In  London  town. 
Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

RONDEAUX  OF  CITIES 

I. 

(Rondeau  a  la  Boston) 

A  cultured  mind!      Before  I  speak 

The  words,  sweet  maid,  to  tinge  thy  cheek 
With  blushes  of  the  nodding  rose 
That  on  thy  breast  in  beauty  blows, 

I   prithee   satisfy  my   freak. 

Canst  thou  read  Latin  and  eke  Greek? 

Dost  thou  for  knowledge  pine  and  peak? 
Hast  thou,  in  short,  as  I  suppose, 
A  cultured  mind? 

Some  men  require  a  maiden  meek 
Enough  to  eat  at  need  the  leek; 


RONDEAUS  347 

Some  lovers  crave  a  classic  nose, 
A  liquid  eye,  or  faultless  pose^ 
I  none  of  these,  I  only  seek 

A  cultured  mind. 

II. 

(Rondeau  a  la  New  York) 

A  pot  of  gold!  O  mistress  fair, 
With  eyes  of  brown  that  pass  compare, 

Ere  I  on  bended  knee  express 

The  love  which  you  already  guess, 
1  fain  would  ask  a  small  affair. 

Hast  thou,  my  dear,  an  ample  share 
Of  this  world's  goods?     Wilt  thy  papa  * 
Disgorge,  to  gild  our  blessedness, 
A  pot  of  gold? 

Some  swains  for  mental  graces  care; 
Some  fall  a  prey  to  golden  hair; 

I  am  not  blind,  I  will  confess. 

To  Intellect  or  comeliness; 
Still  let  these  go  beside,  ma  cAere, 

A  pot  of  gold. 


HI. 

(Rondeau  a  la  Philadelphia) 

A  pedigree!      Ah,  lovely  jade! 

Whose  tresses  mock  the  raven's  shade. 
Before  I  free  this  aching  breast, 
I  want  to  set  my  mind  at  rest; 

'Tis  best  to  call  a  spade  a  spade. 

What  was  thy  father  ere  he  made 

His  fortune?     Was  he  smeared  with  trade, 

*  Pronounced  fafaire. 


348  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Or  does  he  boast  an  ancient  crest — 

A  pedigree? 

Brains  and  bright  eyes  are  overweighed, 
For  wits  grow  dull  and  beauties  fade; 
And  riches,  though  a  welcome  guest, 
Oft  jar  the  matrimonial  nest; 
I  kiss  her  lips  who  holds  displayed 

A  pedigree. 

IV. 

(Rondeau  a  la  Baltimore) 

A  pretty  face!      O  maid  divine, 
Whose  vowels  flow  as  soft  as  wine, 
Before  I  say  upon  the  rack 
The  words  I  never  can  take  back, 
A  moment  meet  my  glance  with  thine. 

Say,  art  thou  fair?      Is  the  mcline 
Of  that  sweet  nose  an  aquiline? 
Hast  thou,  despite  unkind  attack, 
A  pretty  face? 

Some  sigh  for  wisdom;  Three,  not  nine. 
The  Graces  were.      I  won't  repine 
For  want  of  pedigree,  or  lack 
Of  gold  to  banish  Care  the  black, 
If  I  can  call  forever  mine 

A  pretty  face. 

Robert  Grant 


AT  HOME 

At  home  to-night,  alone  with  Dot, 
I  loaf  my  soul  and  care  not  what 

In  worlds  beyond  may  come  or  go. 

Four  walls,  a  roof,  to  brave  the  snow, 
Suffice  to  bound  this  Eden  spot. 


RONDEAUS  349 

Dot  has  her  sewing  things;  I've  got 
My  pipe,  a  glass  of  something  hot 

And  Dot  herself;  The  world's  aglow, 
At  home  to-night. 

As  lovers  in  some  golden  plot 
The  poet  weaves  of  Camelot 

We  feel  apart  from  earth.     We  know 
The  servant  in  the  hall  below 
Will  say  to  all  who  call  we're  not 
At  home  to-night. 

T.  A.  Daly 

HER  SPINNING-WHEEL 

Her  spinning-wheel  she  deftly  guides, 
As  by   the  homely   hearth   she   bides; 

Within  a  quaint,  old  straight-backed  chair, 

A  damsel  with  a  modest  air. 
Over  the  treadle  swift,  presides. 

But  through  the  years  Time  onward  glides, 
Careless  if  good  or  ill  betides; 

Nor  will  his  ruthless  changes  spare 
Her  spinning  wheel. 

Another  cycle  he  provides, 
Though  censor  carps  and  critic  chides. 
The  modern  maid,  fearless  and  fair. 
Daintily  gay  and  debonair; 
Trimly   equipped,    triumphant   rides 
Her  spinning  wheel. 

Carolyn  Wells 

FOR  A  BIRTHDAY  * 

At  two  years  old  the  world  he  sees 
Must  seem  expressly  made  to  please! 

*  From    T/ie  Rocking  Horse  by  Christopher  Morley.     Copy- 
right  1919,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 


350  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Such  new-found  words  and  games  to  try. 
Such  sudden  mirth,  he  knows  not  why, 
So  many  curiosities! 

As  life  about  him,  by  degrees 
Discloses  all  its  pageantries 
He  watches  with  approval  shy 
At  two  years  old. 

With  wonders  tired  he  takes  his  ease 
At  dusk,  upon  his  mother's  knees: 
A  little  laugh,  a  little  cry, 
Put  toys  to  bed,  then  "seepy-bye" — 
The  world  is  made  of  such  as  these 
At  two  years  old. 

Christofher  Morley 


A  FATHER  SPEAKS 

Our  son  and  heir  grows  like  a  tree  ^- 

In  Spring  when  the  first  wave  of  glee    j^ 
Rushes  across  the  oldest  hills  ^ 

And  laughs  along  the  boughs,  and  fills  .v,^- 
The  timidest  twigs  with  energy. 


The  boy  within  mc  leaps  to  see 
This  echoing  laugh  of  gayety 

Bridging  the  years;  its  vigor  thrills 
Our  son  and  heir.   ... 


•JL^ 


I  dare  not  think  how  much  may  be 
Growing  in  him.     I  know  that  he. 
Facing  the  world's  perpetual  ills. 
Must  rise  above  its  whims  and  wills. 
He  is,  more  than  mere  life  to  me, 
Our  sun  and  air! 

Louis  Untermeyer 


RONDEAUS  351 

MAIDEN  MEDITATION 

(A   Rondeau) 

Myrtilla  thinks!    be  still,  oh,  breeze, 
Ye  birds,  cease  warbling  in  the  trees. 

Ye  wavelets,  your  light  plash  subdue, 

Ye  turtle-doves,  neglect  to  coo, 
And  silent  be,  ye  buzzing  bees, 

Lest  even  your  soft  harmonies 

Intrude  upon  such  thoughts  as  these, 
For  though  astonishing,  'tis  true, 
Myrtilla   thinks! 

Plunged  in  profoundest  reveries. 
Fair  visions  her  rapt   fancy  sees; 
So  undecided  what  to  do — 
Shall  she  wear  pink?  shall  she  wear  blue? 
Amid  her  pretty  fineries 
Myrtilla  thinks! 

Carolyn  Wells 

SUB  ROSA 

Under  the  rows  of  gas-jets  bright. 

Bathed  in  a  blazing  river  of  light, 
A  regal  beauty  sits;  above  her 
The  butterflies  of  fashion  hover. 

And  burn  their  wings,  and  take  to  flight. 

Mark  you  her  pure  complexion, — white 
Though  flush  may  follow  flush.     Despite 
Her  blush,  the  lily  I  discover 

Under  the  rose. 

All  compliments  to  her  are  trite; 
She  has  adorers  left  and  right; 


352  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  I  confess,  here,  under  cover 
Of  secrecy,  I  too — I  love  her! 
Say  naught;  she  knows  it  not.     'Tis  quite 
Under  the  rose. 
Brafider  Matthews 


AN  APRIL  FOOL 

(Rondeau) 

An  April  Fool,  I  swear,  is  one 

Who  trusts  the  shade  or  trusts  the  sun, 

Or  aught  that's  in  an  April  day. 

Or — put  it  in  another  way — 
Who  trusts  a  woman.      I   trust  none. 

You  do,  Sir  Romeo?      Well  begun! 
Yes,  I  myself  once  thought  it  fun. 
For  woman's  sake  your  part  to  play — 
An  April  Fool. 

By  stern  experience  taught  to  shun 
The  web  by  witching  glances  spun, 
Deliverance  from  their  toils  I  pray. 
I'm  safe  in  scorn — what's  that  you  say? 
/'d  be— /?— if  I  didn't  run— 

An  April   Fool? 
Henry  Cuyler  Banner 


THAT  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL 
(Rondeau) 

That  New  Year's  Call — the   thirty-first. 

And  thirty,  even,  I  had  cursed, 

And  marked  off  on  my  weary  list — 
And  knit  my  brow  and  clenched  mv  fist: 

I'd  cut  as  many  as  I  durst. 


RONDEAUS  353 

I'd  saved  till  next  to  last  the  worst, 
And  there  upon  my  sight  there  burst 
A  vision.     Well,  I'd  not  have  missed 
That  New  Year's  Call. 


I  had  been  bored;  but  now  she  pursed 
Her   rosy  lips,   as   I   rehearsed 

The  things  so  often  said — the  gist 
I  don't  recall.     'Twas  quite  a  twist — 
The   situation   was   reversed 

T/iaf  New  Year's  Call. 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 


SAINT  VALENTINE 

(Rondeau) 

St.  Valentine!  well  hast  thou  said, 
(Or  some  one  said  it  in  thy  stead,) 
That  of  our  fancies  we  may  frame, 
In  verses  signed  with  ne'er  a  name, 
A  ladder  up  to  Love  to  tread. 


Sweet  saint,  thou  hadst  a  largish  head, 
And  though  thou  never  couldst  have  wed, 
1  think  thou  flirtedst  all  the  same — 
St.  Valentine. 


'Tis  not  for  nothing  I  have  spread 
Myself  on  paper,  sealed  with  red. 
Red  wax — a  cupid  taking  aim. 
I'm  sure  she'll  know  from  whom  it  came. 
If  o'er  it  be  thy  blessing  shed, 

St.  Valentine. 
Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 


354  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

AT  PEEP  OF  DAWN 

(Rondeau) 

At  peep  of  dawn  the  daffodil 
That    slumbers    'neath    the    grassy    hill, 
Greets  smilingly,  with  lifted  head. 
The  rosy  Morn's  oncoming  tread, 
The  thrush  sings  matins  by  the  rill. 

The  swallows  from  the  ruined  mill 
Go  coursing  through  the  air,  and  fill 
The  sky  with  songs  till  then  unsaid 
At  peep   of   dawn. 

No  harbinger  of  day  is  still. 
With  pipe  new-tuned  and  merry  trill 
The  lark  uprises  from  her  bed 
'Mong  grasses  wet  with  dews  unshed, 
And  puts  to  shame   the  whip-poor-will 
At  peep  of  dawn. 

Clinton  Scollard 

IN  VISIONSHIRE 

In  Visionshire  the  sky  is  blue, 

And  all  the  things  I  meant  to  do, 
And  all  the  joys  I  might  have  missed 
And  all  the  lips  I  might  have  kissed 

Wait  for  me,  ever  fresh  and  new! 

My  unwrit  song  is  sung  there,  too, 

And  there  my  dearest  dreams  come  true- 
Ay,  more  dreams  than  my  heart  has  wist 
In   Visionshire! 

For  roses  I  shall  trade  my  rue. 

And,  wandering  those  gardens  through, 


RONDEAUS  355 

Shall  find  the  pathway  as  I  list 
Where  I  may  keep  that  old,  old  tryst 
That  long  ago  I  made  with  you 
In   Visionshire! 

Edwin  Meade  Robmson 


RONDEAUX  OF  THE  GALLERIES 

Camelot 

In  Camelot  how  grey  and  green 

The    Damsels    dwell,    how   sad    their    teen, 

In  Camelot  how  green   and  grey 

The  melancholy  poplars  sway. 

I  wis  I  wot  not  what   they  mean 

Or  wherefore,  passionate  and  lean, 

The  maidens  mope  their  loves  between, 

Not  seeming  to  have  much  to  say, 

In  Camelot. 
Yet  there  hath  armour  goodly  sheen 
The  blossoms  in  the  apple  treen, 
(To  spell  the  Camelotian  way) 
Show  fragrant  through  the  doubtful  day, 
And  Master's  work  is  often  seen 

In  Camelot! 

Philistia 

Philistia!  Maids  in  muslin  white 
With   flannelled   oarsmen   oft   delight 
To  drift  upon  thy  streams,  and  float 
In  Salter's  most  luxurious  boat; 
In  bufi'  and  boots  the  cheery  knight 
Returns  (quite  safe)   from  Naseby  fight; 
Thy  humblest  folks  are  clean  and  bright, 
Thou  still  must  win  the  public  vote, 

Philistia! 
Observe  the  High  Church  curate's  coat. 
The  realistic  hansom  note! 


356  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Ah,  happy  land  untouched  of  blight, 
Smirks,    Bishops,    Babies,   left  and  right, 
We  know  thine  every  charm  by  rote, 
Philistia! 

Andrew  Lang 

WITH  STRAWBERRIES 

With  strawberries  we  filled  a  tray, 
And  then  we  drove  away,  away 
Along  the  links  beside  the  sea, 
Where  wave  and  wind  were  light  and  free, 
And  August  felt  as  fresh  as  May. 

And  where  the  springy  turf  was  gay 
With   thyme   and   balm   and   many  a  spray 
Of  wild  roses,  you  tempted  me 
With  strawberries! 

A  shadowy  sail,  silent  and  grey, 
Stole  like  a  ghost  across  the  bay; 

But  none  could  hear  me  ask  my  fee, 
And  none  could  know  what  came  to  be. 
Can   sweethearts  all  their  thirst   allay 
With  strawberries? 

W.  E.  Henley 

"VIOLET" 

Violet,  delicate,  sweet, 

Down  in  the  deep  of  the  wood. 
Hid   in   thy  still   retreat. 
Far  from  the  sound  of  the  street, 
Man  and  his  merciless  mood: — 

Safe    from    the    storm    and    the    heat. 
Breathing    of    beauty    and    good 
Fragrantly,  under  thy  hood 

Violet. 


RONDEAUS  357 

Beautiful    maid,    discreet, 
Where   is   the   mate   that   is  meet, 

Meet   for  thee — strive  as  he  could — 
Yet  will  I   kneel  at  thy  feet. 
Fearing    another    one    should, 

Violet! 
Cosmo  Monkhouse 


IN   BEECHEN   SHADE 

In  beechen  shade  the  hours  are  sweet, 
By  mist-veiled  morn   or   noonday   heat 
(And  sweeter   still  when   daylight   dies) 
So  soft  the  wandering  streamlet  sighs 
In  passage  musical  and  fleet. 

Full    drowsily    the   white    lambs   bleat, 
And  tinkling  bell-notes  faintly  beat 
The  languid  air  where  Lacon  lies 
In  beechen  shade. 

And  still,  when   day  and  even   meet; 
Selene  strays  with  golden   feet, 

That  gleam  along  the  low  blue  skies 
And  paceth  slow,  with  dreaming  eyes 
That  seek  the  shepherd's  dim  retreat 

'Mid  beechen  shade. 
Graham  R.  Tomson 

AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

Among  my  books — what  rest  is  there 
From   wasting   woes!    what   balm    for   care! 
If  ills  appal  or  clouds  hang  low, 
And  drooping  dim  the  fleeting  show, 
I  revel  still  in  visions  rare. 

At  will  I  breathe  the  classic  air, 
The  wanderings  of  Ulysses  share; 


3  58  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Or  see  the  plume  of  Bayard  flow 
Among    my    books. 

Whatever  face  the  world  may  wear — 
If  Lilian  has  no  smile  to  spare, 
For  others  let  her  beauty  blow, 
Such   favours  I  can  well  forego; 
Perchance   forget  the   frowning   fair 
Among  my  books 

Samuel  Miftfurn  Peck 


TO  R.  L.  S. 

Dear  R.  L.  S.,  whose  books  each  night 
We  used  to  read  by  candle-light. 
These  many  years  your  body  lies 
Under  the  blue  Samoan   skies, 
But  still  your  words  ring  warm  and  bright. 

In  these  poor  rhymes,  however  slight, 
I  fain  would  tell  you,  if  1  might, 

Your  words  brought  gladness  to  her  eyes, 
Dear  R.  L.  S. 

The  magic  you  knew  how  to  write 
Evoked  her  laughter  of  delight: 

With   gratitude  which   rhyme  denies 
Full  utterance — do  not  despise — 
To  You,  to  Her,  I  this  indite. 
Dear  R.  L.  S. 

Christofher  Morley 


TO  CATULLUS 

A   Rondel 

Laughter  and  tears  to  you  the  gods  once  gave, 
Those  silver  tears  upon  your  brother's  grave. 


RONDEAUS  359 

And    golden    laughter    in    your   lady's   bower, 
And  silver-gold   in   your   love's  bitter  hour. 
You  showed  us,  burdened  with  our  hopes  and  fears, 
Laughter  and  tears. 


Poor  tears  that  fell  upon  the  thirsty  sands. 
Poor  laughter  stifled  with  ungentle  hands, 
Poor  heart  that  was  so  sweet  to  laugh  and  cry, 
Your  joyful,  mournful  songs  shall   never  die, 
But  show  us  still  across  the  shadowing  years 
Laughter  and  tears. 

E.  A.  Mackintosh,  M. 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE  LAUGHED* 

When  Shakespeare  laughed,  the  fun  began! 

Even  the  tavern  barmaids  ran 

To  choke  in  secret,  and  unbent 
A  lace,  to  ease  their  merriment. 

The   Mermaid   rocked   to  hear   the   man. 


Then    Ben    his   aching    girth    would    span, 
And   roar   above   his  pasty   pan, 

"Avast   there.  Will,    for   I   am   spent!" 
When  Shakespeare  laughed. 


I'faith,    let   him    be   grave   who   can 
When   Falstaff,   Puck  and  Caliban 
In   one  explosive   jest   are  blent. 
The  boatrhan   on    the   river   lent 
An  ear  to  hear  the  mirthful  clan 

When  Shakespeare  laughed. 

Christopher  Morley 

*  From    T/te  Rocking  Horse  by  Christopher   Morley.     Copy- 
right  1919,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 


360  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


WITH  PIPE  AND  BOOK 

With  Pipe  and  Book  at  close  of  day, 
O!   what  is  sweeter,  mortal,  say; 

It  matters  not  what  book  on   knee. 

Old   Izaak  or   the   Odyssey, 
It   matters    not    meerschaum    or    clay. 

And   though   one's   eyes  will   dream  astray. 
And  lips   forget   to  sue  or  sway, 
It   is   "enough   to   merely    Be," 
With   Pipe  and   Book. 

What   though   our  modern   skies  be  grey. 
As  bards  aver,   I   will   not  pray 

For   "soothing   Death"   to   succour  me. 
But  ask  thus  much,  O  Fate,  of  thee, — 
A  little  longer  here  to  stay 
With    Pipe   and    Book. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

The  Old  Year  goes  down-hill   so  slow 

And  silent  that  he  seems  to  know 

The  mighty  march  of  time,  foretelling 
His   departure;    to  his   eyelids  welling 

Come  tears  of  bitter  pain  and  woe. 

The  lusty  blast  can  scarce  forego 

His  cape   about  his  ears   to  blow. 

As  feebly  to  his  final  dwellmg 

The  Old  Year  goes! 

Within    the   belfry,   row  on   row, 
The  bells  are  swinging  to  and   fro; 

Now  joyfully  the  chimes  are  swelling — 
Now  solemn  and  few  the  notes  are  knelling- 


RONDEAUS  361 

For  here  the  New  Year   comes: — and  lo! 
The  Old  Year  goes! 

Brander  Matthews 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

The  ships  go  down  to  take  the  sea. 
Who   seeks   the    dawn-pale   mystery 

That   lies  beyond   the   violet  bays? 

What  masts  shall  dip  into  the  haze, 
Slip   through,   to  where   the   sea-lights  be? 

Oh,   valiant   young   explorers  we! 
Of  the   dim   seas  hope  makes  us   free: 
Into   the   dawn-gray  water-ways 
The  ships  go  down. 

And   none  may   know   for  what   far  quay 
Their  sails  are  set,  or  what  their  fee. 

Some  bear  rich  freights  through  golden  days; 
Some  come  to  where  the  dim  sea  sways 
And  breaks,   and,   vanquished   utterly. 
The  ships  go  down. 

Rose  Macaulay 


OLD  YEAR 

The  old  sea-ways  send  up  their  tide; 

The  battered  ships  to  harbour  ride. 
In    the   deep   seas   beyond   the   bar. 
Where  the  great  winds  and  waters  are, 

The    drifting    ships   have    dropped    their    pride: 

When    for   the   morning   seas   they   plied,  ^ 
Who  but  young  Hope  should  be  their  guide, 
To  steer  them  through  the  rocks  that  scar 
The  old  sea-ways? 


362  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Into   the  port   they  reel   and   slide, 
So   for   a  little   space    abide, 

Waiting  the  gleam  of  the  dawn-star 
To   seelc  new  waters,   strange   and   far, 
But  no  more  shall  their  keels  divide 

The  old  sea-ways. 

Rose  Macaulay 


SLEEP 

O  happy  sleep!   that  bear'st  upon  thy  breast 
The   blood-red   poppy  of  enchanting   rest. 

Draw  near  me  through  the  stillness  of  this  place 
And  let  thy  low  breath  move  across  my  face. 
As  faint  winds  move  above  a  poplar's  crest. 

The  broad  seas  darken  slowly  in  the  west; 
The  wheeling  sea-birds  call  from  nest  to  nest; 
Draw  near  and  touch  me,  leaning  out  of  space, 

O  happy  Sleep! 

There  is  no  sorrow  hidden  or  confess'd, 
There  is  no  passion  uttered  or  suppress'd. 
Thou  canst  not  for  a  little  while  efface; 
Enfold  me  in  thy  mystical  embrace, 
Thou  sovereign  gift  of  God,  most  sweet,  most  blest, 

O  happy  Sleep! 

Ada  Louise  Martin 


THE  GODS  ARE  DEAD 

The  gods  are  dead?      Perhaps  they  are!      Who  knows? 

Living  at  least   in   Lempriere   undeleted, 
The  wise,  the  fair,  the  awful,  the  jocose, 

Are  one  and  all,  I  like  to  think,  retreated 
In  some  still   land  of  lilacs  and  the  rose. 


RONDEAUS  363 

Once  high  they  sat,  and  high  o'er  earthy  shows 

With  sacrificial  dance  and  song  were  greeted, 
Once   .   .   .  long  ago:  but  now  the  story  goes, 
The   gods  are   dead. 

It  must  be  true.     The  world  a  world  of  prose. 

Full-crammed  with   facts,   in   science   swathed   and 
sheeted, 
Nods  in   a  stertorous  after-dinner  doze. 
Plangent  and  sad,  in  every  wind  that  blows 

Who  will  may  hear  the  sorry  words  repeated — 
The  gods  are   dead. 

W.  E.  Henley 

THE  GATES  OF  HORN 

The  Gates  of  Horn  are  dull  of  hue 
(If  all  our  wise  men   tell   us  true). 
No  songs,  they  say,  nor  perfumed  air 
Shall   greet   the   wistful   pilgrim   there, 
No  leaves  are  green,  no  skies  are  blue. 

Yet  he  who  will  may  find  a  clue 
(Mid   shadows   steeped   in    opal   dew) 
To  seek,  and  see  them  passing  fair. 
The  Gates  of  Horn. 

The  man  that  goes  not  wreathed  with  rue, 
Right  lovely  shapes  his  smile  shall  sue, 
With  red  rose-garlands  in  their  hair 
And  garments  gay  with  gold  and  vair, 
Full   fain   to  meet  him  trooping  through 
The  Gates  of  Horn. 

Graha?n  R.  Tomson 


WHAT  IS  TO  COME 

What  is  to  come  we  know  not.     But  we  know 
That  what  has  been  was  good — was  good  to  show, 


364  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Better  to  hide,  and  best  of  all  to  bear. 
We  are  the  masters  of  the  days  that  were: 
We  have  lived,  we  have  loved,  we  have  suffered— even  so. 

Shall  we  not  take  the  ebb  who  had   the  flow? 

Life  was  our  friend.      Now,  if  it  be  our  foe 

Dear,  though  it  break  and  spoil  us! — need  we  care 
What   is   to   come? 

Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow: 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves,  and  we  can  dare 
And  we  can  conquer,  though  we  may  not  share 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  afterglow 

What  is  to  come. 

W.  E.  Henley 


BEYOND  THE  NIGHT 

Beyond  the  night  no  withered  rose 
Shall  mock  the  later  bud  that  blows, 
Nor  lily  blossom  e'er  shall  blight, 
But  all  shall  gleam  more  pure  and  white 
Than    starlight   on    the   Arctic   snows. 

Sigh  not  when  daylight  dimmer  grows, 
And  life  a  turbid  river  flows, 
For  all   is  sweetness — all   is  light 
Beyond    the    night. 

Oh,  haste,  sweet  hour  that  no  man  knows; 
Uplift  us  from  our  cumbering  woes 

Where  joy  and  peace  shall  crown  the  right. 
And  perished  hopes  shall  blossom  bright — 
To  aching  hearts  bring  sweet  repose 
Beyond    the    night. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


RONDEAUS  365 


O  WINDS  THAT  WAIL 

O  winds  that  wail  in  sombre  skies, 
When  day  has  closed  his  weary  eyes; 
What  shadow  thoughts  do  you  suggest 
With  your  perpetual  unrest 
Moaning  nocturnal  mysteries? 

Dim  faces,  ancient  memories. 
Deeds  we  had  fashioned  otherwise, 
Words  we  had  stifled   unexpressed; 
O  winds   that  wail! 

Past   strivings   and    futilities, 
And   half-forgotten    agonies; 
Such  are  the  messages  you  bring, 
With  your  insistent  whispering 
And  indeterminable  sighs, 

O   winds   that   wail!  . 
Arthur   Comfton-Rickett 

LES  MORTS  VONT  VITE  * 

Les  marts  vont  vite!     Ay,  for  a  little  space 

We  miss  and  mourn  them,  fallen  from  their  place; 

To  take  our  portion  in  their  rest  are  fain; 

But  by-and-by,  having  wept,  press  on  again. 
Perchance  to  win  their  laurels  in  the  race. 

What  man  would  find  the  old  in  the  new  love's  face? 
Seek  on  the  fresher  lips  the  old  kisses'  trace. 
For   withered   roses   newer   blooms   disdain? 
Les  marts  vont  vite! 

But  when  disease  brings  thee  in  piteous  case. 
Thou  shalt  thy  dead  recall,  and  thy  ill  grace 

*From    The  Poems   of   H.   C.   Bunner.     Copyright    1917   by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 


366  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

To  them  for  whom  remembrance  plead  in  vain. 
Then,  shuddering,  think,  while  thy  bed-fellow  Pain 
Clasps  thee  with  arms  that  cling  like  Death's  embrace: 
Les  marts  vont  z/ite! 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 

LES  MORTS  VONT  VITE 

Les  marts  vont  v'tte:  The  dead  go  fast! 
So  runs  the  motto  France  has  cast. 

To  nature  man  must  pay  his  debt; 

Despite  all  struggle,   despite  all   fret, 
He  journeys  swift  to  the  future  vast. 

It  needs  no  ghost  from  out  the  past, 
To  make  mere  mortals  stand  aghast, — 
To  make  them  dream  of  death — and  yet 
Les  marts  vont  vite. 

Although   the   sails    (bellowed  by  blast) 
Of  Charon's  bark  may  strain  the  mast — 
The  dead  are  not  dead  while  we  regret; 
The  dead  are  not  dead  till   we   forget; 
But  true  the  motto,  or  first  or  last: 

Les  marts  vont  vite. 
Brander  Matthews 

RONDEAU:  OH,  IN  MY  DREAMS  I  FLEW! 

Why  not,  my  Soul?      Why  not  fare  forth,  and  fly 
Free  as  thy  dreams  were  free! — with  them  to  vie; 

There  thou  wert  bold — thou  knew'st  not  doubt  nor  fear, 
Thy  will  was  there  thy  deed — ah,  why  not  here? 
Thou  need'st  but  faith  to  carry  thee  on  high! 

A  thousand  things  that  others  dare  not  try — 
A  thousand  hopes  thy  heart  doth  prophesy; 

Thou  knowest  the  master-word,  oh,  speak  it  clear! 
Why  not,  my  soul? 


RONDEAUS  367 

Let  not  this  world  of  little  things  deny; 
Break  thy  frail  bonds,  and  in  those  dreams  rely! 
Trust  to  the  counsels  of  that  other  sphere; 
Let  that  night's  vision  in  the  day  appear; 
Walk  forth  upon  the  water — wing  the  sky! 

Why  not,  my  soul? 

Gelett  Burgess 


TO  DEATH,  OF  HIS  LADY 

(Frangois  Villon) 

Death,  of  thee  do  I   make  my  moan, 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me. 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 

Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own; 

For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo!  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee, 

Death? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one; 

Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be. 
Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
As  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone, 

Death! 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 


GRAVE  GALLANTRY 

After  Charles  Garnier 


My  rival  Death  is  fashioned  amorously; — 
No  caliph  boasts  more  comely  wives  than  he, 
For  whom   crowned  Cleopatra  reft  the  snare 
Of  careful-eyed  Octavius,  and — less  fair 
Than  she,  but  lovely  still — Leucothoe, 


368  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  Atalanta,  and  Antigone, 

Loosed  virgin  zones.   .   .   .  What  need  hadst  thou  to  be 
Desirous  then  of  this  girl's  lips  and  hair, 

My    rival    Death? 

What  need  hadst   thou   likewise  of  Dorothy! 
What  need  of  that  which  was  all  life  to  me! 
What  need,  lascivious  Death,  that  she  forswear 
Fond  oaths  to  me — fond  oaths  made  otherwhere — 
In  thy  lank  arms,  and  leave  me  friends  with  thee, 

My  rival.  Death! 


II 

Had  she  divined  how  many  virclais 
Have  feebly  parodied  some  piercing  phase 
Of  love  for  her  whom  love  lacked  might  to  claim — 
How  many  rhymes  have  marshalled  frail  and  lame, 
Yet  fervent-hearted,  to  avouch  her  praise, — 
Such  pity  had  been   mine  as  well  repays 
Drear  years  of  waiting. — Ey,  in  kindlier  days 
Compassion  might  have  worn  some  kinglier  name 

Had  she  divined. 

Now  that  may  never  be;   divergent  ways 
Allured;  and  all  is  ended;  and  naught  betrays 
Dead  cheeks  to  kindle,  now,  with  livelier  flame 
For  aught  I  utter.   .   .   .  Yet  it  were  no  shame 
To  dream  a  little  on  her  softening  gaze 

Had  she  divined. 


m 

That  she  is  dead  breeds  no  uncouth  despair, 
However, — as  death  bred  when  men  would  bear 
A  glove  upon   their  helms,  and  slay  or  sing 
In  honor  of  its  giver,  hazarding 
Life  and  life's  aims  because  a  girl  was  fair.   .   . 
Grotesque  their  liege-lord  seems  when  we  compare 
That  Cupidling  who  spurs  me  to  declare 


RONDEAUS  369 

Sedate  regret,  in  rhythmic  sorrowing 

That  she  is  dead. 

Nay,  he  is  much  the  punier  of  the  pair, — 
My  little  lord,  who  dreads  lest  critics  stare 
Too  pointedly, — a  flimsy  faineant  king; — 
Yet  hearts  may  crack  without  crude  posturing. 
This  girl  is  dead;  and  1  confess  1  care 

That  she  is  dead. 

James  Branch  Cabell 


A  MAN  MUST  LIVE 

A  man  must  live!      We  justify 
Low  shift   and   trick  to   treason   high, 
A  little  vote  for  a  little  gold, 
To  a  whole  senate  bought  and  sold. 
With    this   self-evident    reply. 

But  is  it  so?      Pray  tell  me  why 
Life  at  such  cost  you  have  to  buy? 
In  what  religion  were  you  told 
'A  man  must  live?' 

There  are  times  when  a  man  must  die. 
Imagine  for  a  battle-cry 

From  soldier  with  a  sword  to  hold — 
From  soldiers  with  the  flag  unrolled — 
This  coward's  whine,  this  liar's  lie, 
'A  man  must  live? ' 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson 


ALL  MEN  ARE  FREE! 

'All  men  are  free  and  equal  born 

Before  the  Law!'      So  runs  the  worn 
And    specious,    lying,    parrot-cry. 
All  men  are  free — to  starve  or  sigh; 
But  few  to  feed  on  Egypt's  corn. 


370  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

There   toils   the   sweated   slave,   forlorn; 
There  weeps  the  babe  with  hunger  torn; 
Dear  God!      Forgive  us  for  the  lie — 
'All  men  are  free!' 

That  man  may  laugh  while  this  must  mourn; 
One's  heir  to  honour,  one  to  scorn — 

Were  they  born  free?      Were  you?      Was  I? 
No!      Not  when  born,  but  when  they  die 
And  of  their  robes — or  rags — are  shorn. 
All  men  are  free! 

Elliott  Nafier 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS* 

In    Flanders    fields   the   poppies   blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row. 

That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky. 
The   larks,   still   bravely  singing,  fly, 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  dead;  short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow. 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In   Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe! 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high! 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 

In  Flanders  fields. 

John  McCrae 

*  From   In   Flanders   Fields   by   John    McCrae.     Courtesy   of 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  Publishers,  New  York  and  London. 


ROUNDELS 


THE  ROUNDEL 

A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star-bright  sphere, 
With  craft  of  delight  and  with  cunning  of  sound  unsought, 
That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  may  smile  if  to  pleasure  his  ear 

A  roundel   is  wrought. 

Its  jewel  of  music  is  carven  of  all  or  of  aught — 

Love,    laughter    or    mourning — remembrance    of    rapture    or 

fear — 
That  fancy  may  fashion  to  hang  in  the  ear  of  thought. 

As  a  bird's  quick  song  runs  round,  and  the  hearts  in  us  hear 
Pause  answer  to  pause,  and  again  the  same  strain  caught, 
So  moves  the  device  whence,  round  as  a  pearl  or  tear, 

A  roundel  is  wrought. 

Algernon  Charles  Szvinburne 


ETUDE  REALISTE 


A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink. 

Might  tempt,  should  heaven  see  meet, 
An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 
A  baby's  feet. 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten   soft  buds  that  part  and  meet. 

No  flower-bells  that  expand  and  shrink 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 
A  baby's  feet. 

Z7Z 


374  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

11 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furled, 

Whence  yet  no  leaf  expands. 
Ope  If  you  touch,  though  close  upcurled, 
A  baby's  hands. 

Then,  even  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurled. 
They  close,  clenched  hard  like  tightening  bands. 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearled 

Match,  even   in   loveliest  lands. 
The  sweetest  flowers  in  all  the  world — 
A  baby's  hands. 

Ill 

A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin 

Ere  lips  learn  words  or  sighs, 
Bless  all  things  bright  enough  to  win 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and  lies. 

And  sleep  flows  out  and  in. 
Lies  perfect  in  them  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  and  sin, 

Their   speech   make   dumb  the  wise, 
By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


BABYHOOD 


A  Baby  shines  as  bright 
If  winter  or  if  May  be 
On  eyes  that  keep  in  sight 
A  baby. 


ROUNDELS  375 

Though  dark  the  skies  or  gray  be, 
It  fills  our  eyes  with  light, 
If    midnight    or    midday    be. 

Love  hails  it,  day  and  night, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  may  be, 
Yet  cannot  praise  aright 
A  baby. 


II 


All  heaven,  in  every  baby  born, 
All  absolute  of  earthly  leaven. 
Reveals  itself,  tho'  man  may  scorn 
All  heaven. 

Yet  man  might  feel  all  sin  forgiven. 
All  grief  appeased,  all  pain  outworn. 
By  this  one  revelation   given. 

Soul,   now   forget   thy  burdens  borne; 
Heart,  be  thy  joys  now  seven  times  seven: 
Love  shows  in  light  more  bright  than  morn 
All  heaven. 


Ill 

What  likeness  may  define,  and  stray  not 

From  truth's  exactest  way, 
A  baby's  beauty?      Love  can  say  not 

What  likeness  may. 

The   Mayflower   loveliest   held   in   May 

Of  all  that  shine  and  stay  not 
Laughs  not  in  rosier  disarray. 

Sleek  satin,  swansdown,  buds  that  play  not 

As  yet  with  winds   that  play, 
Would  fain  be  matched  with  this,  and  may  not: 

What   likeness   may? 


376  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


IV 


Rose,   round  whose  bed 
Dawn's  cloudlets  close 
Earth's  brightest-bred 
Rose! 

No  song,  love  knows, 
May  praise  the  head 
Your  curtain   shows. 

Ere  sleep  has  fled, 
The  whole  child  glows 
One  sweet  live  red 
Rose. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


FLOWER-PIECES 


Love  Lies  Bleeding 

Love  lies  bleeding  in   the  bed  whereover 
Roses  lean  with  smiling  mouths  or  pleading: 
Earth  lies  laughing  where  the  sun's  dart  clove  her: 
Love  lies  bleeding.  ' 

Stately  shine  his  purple  plumes,  exceeding 
Pride  of  princess;  nor  shall  m.aid  or  lover 
Find  on  earth  a  fairer  sign  worth  heeding. 

Yet  may  love,  sore  wounded,  scarce  recover 
Strength  and  spirit  again,  with   life  receding: 
Hope  and  joy,  wind-winged,  about  him  hover: 
Love  lies  bleeding. 


ROUNDELS  377 

11 

Love  in  a  Mist 

Light  love  in  a  mist,  by  the  midsummer  moon  misguided, 
Scarce  seen  in  the  twilight  garden  if  gloom  insist, 
Seems  vainly  to  seek  for  a  star  whose  gleam  has  derided 
Light  love  in  a  mist. 

All  day  in  the  sun,  when  the  breezes  do  all  they  list, 
His  soft  blue  raiment  of  cloudlike  blossom  abided 
Unrent  and  unwithered  of  winds  and  of  rays  that  kissed. 

Blithe-hearted  or  sad,  as  the  cloud  or  the  sun  subsided. 
Love  smiled  in  the  flower  with  a  meaning  whereof  none  wist 
Save  two  that  beheld,  as  a  gleam  that  before  them  glided. 
Light  love  in  a  mist. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


AT  SEA 

'Farewell  and  adieu'  was  the  burden  prevailing 
Long  since  in  the  chant  of  a  home-faring  crew; 
And  the  heart  in  us  echoes,  with  laughing  or  wailing, 
Farewell  and  adieu. 

Each  year  that  we  live  shall  we  sing  it  anew, 
With  a  water  untravelled  before  us  for  sailing 
And  a  water  behind  us  that  wrecks  may  bestrew. 

The  stars  of  the  past  and  the  beacons  are  paling, 
The  heavens  and  the  waters  are  hoarier  of  hue; 
But  the  heart  in  us  chants  not  an  all  unavailing 
Farewell   and  adieu. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


378  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

THREE  FACES 
I 

Ventimiglia 

The  sky  and  sea  glared  hard  and  bright  and  blank: 
Down  the  one  steep  street,  with  slow  steps  firm  and  free 
A  tall  girl  paced,  with  eyes  too  proud  to  thank 
The  sky  and  sea. 

One  dead  flat  sapphire,  void  of  wrath  or  glee, 
Through  bay  on  bay  shone  blind  from  blank  to  blank 
The  weary  Mediterranean,  drear  to  see. 

More  deep,  more  living,  shone  her  eyes  that  drank 
The  breathless  light  and  shed  again  on  me, 
Till  pale  before  their  splendor  waned  and  shrank 
The  sky  and  sea. 

II 

Genoa 

Again  the  same  strange  might  of  eyes,  that  saw 
In  heaven  and  earth  nought  fairer,  overcame 
My  sight  with  rapture  of  reiterate  awe. 
Again  the  same. 

The  self-same  pulse  of  wonder  shook  like  flame 
The  spirit  of  sense  within  me:  what  strange  law 
Had  bid  this  be,  for  blessing  or  for  blame? 

To  what  veiled  end  that  fate  or  chance  foresaw 
Came  forth  this  second  sister  face,  that  came 
Absolute,  perfect,  fair,  without  a  flaw. 
Again  the  same? 


ROUNDELS  379 

III 

Venice 

Out  of  the  dark  pure  twilight,  where  the  stream 
Flows  glimmering,  streaked  by  many  a  birdlike  bark 
That  skims  the  gloom  whence  towers  and  bridges  gleam 
Out  of  the  dark, 

Once  more  a  face  no  glance  might  choose  but  mark 
Shone  pale  and  bright,  with  eyes  whose  deep  slow  beam 
Made  quick  the  twilight,  lifeless  else  and  stark. 

The  same  it  seemed,  or  mystery  made  it  seem. 
As  those  before  beholden;  but  St.  Mark 
Ruled  here  the  ways  that  showed  it  like  a  dream 
Out  of  the  dark. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


TO  CATULLUS 

My  bi other,  my  Valerius,  dearest  head 
Of  all  whose  crowning  bay-leaves  crown  their  mother, 
Rome,  in  the  notes  first  heard  of  thine  I  read 
My  brother. 

No  dust  that  death  or  time  can  strew  may  smother 
Love  and  the  sense  of  kinship  inly  bred 
From  loves  and  hates  at  one  with  one  another. 

To  thee  was  Cassar's  self  nor  dear  nor  dread, 
Song  and  the  sea  were  sweeter  each  than  other: 
How  should  I  living  fear  to  call  thee  dead 
My  brother? 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


380  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

PAST  DAYS 


Dead  and  gone,  the  days  we  had  together, 
Shadow-stricken  all  the  lights  that  shone 
Round  them,  flown  as  flies  the  blown-foam's  feather, 
Dead  and  gone. 

Where  we  went,  we  twain,  in  time  foregone, 
Forth  by  land  and  sea,  and  cared  not  whether, 
If  I  go  again,  I  go  alone. 

Bound  am  I  with  time  as  with  a  tether,- 
Thee  perchance  death  leads  enfranchised  on. 
Far  from  deathlike  life  and  changeful  weather, 
Dead  and  gone. 

II 

Above  the  sea  and  sea-washed  town  we  dwelt. 
We  twain  together,  two  brief  summers,  free 
From  heed  of  hours  as  light  as  clouds  that  melt 
Above  the  sea. 

Free  from  all  heed  of  aught  at  all  were  we. 

Save  chance  of  change  that  clouds  or  sunbeams  dealt 

And  gleam  of  heaven  to  windward  or  to  lee. 

The  Norman  downs  with  bright  gray  waves  for  belt 
Were  more  for  us  than  inland  ways  might  be; 
A  clearer  sense  of  nearer  heaven  was  felt 
Above  the  sea. 


Ill 

Cliff's  and  downs  and  headlands  which  the  forward-hasting 
Flight  of  dawn  and  eve  empurples  and  embrowns. 
Wings  of  wild  sea-winds  and  stormy  seasons  wasting 
Cliff's  and  downs, 


ROUNDELS  381 

These,  or  ever  man  was,  were:  the  same  sky  frowns, 
Laughs,  and  lightens,  as  before  his  soul,  forecasting 
Times  to  be,  conceived  such  hopes  as  time  discrowns. 

These  we  loved  of  old:  but  now  for  me  the  blasting 
Breath  of  death  makes  dull  the  bright  small  seaward  towns. 
Clothes  with  human  change  these  all  but  everlasting 
Cliffs  and  downs. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


TWO  PRELUDES 


Lohengrin 

Love,  out  of  the  depth  of  things, 
As  a  dewfall  felt  from  above. 
From  the  heaven  whence  only  springs 
Love — 

Love,  heard  from  the  heights  thereof, 
The  clouds  and  the  watersprings. 
Draws  close  as  the  clouds  remove. 

And  the  soul   in   it  speaks  and  sings, 
A  swan  sweet-souled  as  a  dove. 
An  echo  that  only  rings 
Love. 

II 

Tristan  und  Isolde 

Fate  out  of  the   deep  sea's  gloom. 
When  a  man's  heart's  pride  grows  great, 
And  nought  seems  now  to  foredoom 
Fate, 


382  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Fate,  laden  with  fears  in  wait, 

Draws  close  through  the  clouds  that  loom, 

Till   the   soul   see,   all   too  late, 

More  dark  than  a  dead  world's  tomb, 
More  high  than  the  sheer  dawn's  gate. 
More  deep  than  the  wide  sea's  womb. 
Fate. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


A   ROUNDEL 

(WIS) 

A  year  ago  were  love  and  mirth 

And  Youth's  gay,  careless  flow; 
For  him  flamed  Life  in  all  its  ardent  worth, 
A   year    ago. 

Love  came  with  her  enchanting  glow, 

And   doubly   blessed  his  happy   birth; 
Yet  those  the  gods  love — Well,  we  know! 

Beneath  a  nameless  mound  of  earth 

He    lies,    where    daisies    grow, 
Leaving  a  void  in  hearts  that  knew  no  dearth 
A   year    ago. 

Arthur  Comfton-Rickett 

BETWEEN  THE  SHOWERS 

Between  the  showers  I  went  my  way, 

The  glistening   street   was  bright   with   flowers; 
It  seemed  that  March  had  turned  to  May. 
Between  the  showers. 

Above  the  shining  roofs  and   towers 

The  blue  broke  forth  athwart  the  grey; 
Birds  carolled  in  their  leafless  bowers, 


ROUNDELS  383 

Hither  and  thither,  swift  and  gay, 

The  people  chased  the  changeful  hours; 
And  you,  you  passed  and  smiled  that  day, 
Between  the  showers. 

Amy  Levy 


STRAW  IN  THE  STREET 

Straw  in  the  street  where  I  pass  to-day 
Dulls  the  sound  of  the  wheels  and  feet. 
'Tis  for  a  failing  life  they  lay 

Straw  in  the  street. 

Here,  where  the  pulses  of  London  beat, 
Someone  strives  with  the  Presence  grey, 
Ah,  is  it  victory  or  defeat? 

The  hurrying  people  go  their  way, 
Pause  and  jostle  and  pass  and  greet; 
For  life,  for  death,  are  they  treading,  say, 
Straw  in  the  street? 

Amy  Levy 


A  ROUNDEL  OF  REST 

If  rest  is  sweet  at  shut  of  day 

For  tired  hands  and  tired  feet, 
How  sweet  at  last  to  rest  for  aye, 
If  rest  is  sweet! 

We  work  or  work  not  through  the  heat: 

Death  bids  us  soon  our  labours  lay 
In  lands  where  night  and  twilight  meet. 

When  the  last  dawns  are  fallen  on  grey 
And  all  life's  toils  and  ease  complete. 
They  know  who  work,  not  they  who  play. 
If  rest  is  sweet. 

Arthur  Symons 


384  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


MORS  ET  VITA 

We  know  not  yet  what  life  shall  be, 

What  shore  beyond  earth's  shore  be  set; 
What  grief  awaits  us,  or  what  glee. 
We  know  not  yet. 

Still,    somewhere    in    sweet    converse    met, 
Old  friends,  we  say,  beyond  death's  sea 
Shall  meet  and  greet  us,  nor  forget 

Those  days  of  yore,   those  years  when  we 

Were  loved  and  true, — but  will  death  let 
Our  eyes  the  longed-for  vision  see? 
We  know  not  yet, 

Samuel  Waddington 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER 

To  buy  my  book — if  you  will  be  so  kind — 

Is  all  I  ask  of  you;  and  not  to  look 
What  fruit  lies  hid  beneath  the  azure  rind: 
To  buy  my  book. 

This  for  her  hymn-book  Rosalind  mistook. 

When  worshipping  with  yokel,  maid,  and  hind; 
Net^ra  read  it  in  a  flowery  nook. 

And  gave  her  loose  curls  to  the  wanton  wind. 
For  this  her  grammar  Syhia  once  forsook. 
Of  you  I  only  ask — you  will  not  mind?  — 
To  buy  my  book. 

J.  K.  Stefhen 


RONDEAUX    REDOUBLES 


•■   t. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  DRYOPE 

(Rondeau   Redouble) 

O  goddess  sweet,  give  ear  unto  my  prayer. 

Come  with  thy  doves  across  the  briny  sea, 
Leave  thy  tall  fanes  and  thy  rose  gardens  rare, 

From  cruel  bondage  set   thy  vot'ress   free! 


Ah,  how  my  heart  would  joy  again  to  be 

Like  chirming  bird  that  cleaves  the  sunny  air. 

Like  wildwood   roe  that  bounds  in   ecstasy; 
O  goddess  sweet,  give  ear  unto  my  prayer! 


That  I  am  innocent  hast  thou  no  care 
Of  crime  against  celestial  deity? 

Must  I  the  fate  of  lovely  Lotis  share?  — 
Come  with  thy  doves  across  the  briny  sea! 


I   hear   no   waters'   silvern    melody. 

And  yet  the  rippling  water  once  was  there, 

And  on  its  bloomy  banks  I  worshipped  thee; — 
Leave  thy  tall  fanes  and  thy  rose  gardens  rare! 


Could  I  but  feel  my  boy's  hands  on  my  hair. 
Could  I  but  kiss  my  sister  lole, 

Then  bravely  would  I  cast  forth  chill  despair, 

From  cruel  bondage  set  thy  vot'ress  free! 

387 


388  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

I,  who  was  once  the  blithesome  Dryope, 

Am  now  a  tree  bole,  cold  and  brown  and  bare; 
Pity,  I  pray,  my  ceaseless  agony. 

Or  grant  forgetfulness  of  all  things  fair, 

O  goddess  sweet. 

Clinton  Scollard 

RONDEAU  REDOUBLE 

I  will  go  hence,  and  seek  her,  my  old  Love; 

All  bramble-laced,  and  moss-grown  is  the  way, 
There  is  no  sun,  nor  broad,  red  moon  above. 

The  year  is  old,  he  said,  and  skies  are  grey. 

The  rose-wreaths  fade,  the  viols  are  not  gay, 

That  which  seemed  sweet  doth  passing  bitter  prove; 

So  sweet  she  was,  she  will  not  say  me  nay — 
I  will  go  hence  and  seek  her,  my  old  Love. 

Low,  labouring  sighs  stirred  coldly  through  the  grove, 
Where  buds  unblossomed  on  the  mosses  lay; 

His  upa  .ised  hands  the  dusky  tangle  clove, 

"All  bramble-laced  and  moss-grown  is  the  way!" 

With  grievous  eyes,  and  lips  that  smiled  alway. 

Strange,    flitting    shapes,    wreathed   round   him    as   he 
strove 

Their  spectral  arms,  and  filmy  green  array; 

There  was  no  sun,  no  broad  red  moon  above. 

Here  lies  her  lute — and  here  her  slender  glove; 

(Her  bower  well  won,  sweet  joy  shall  crown  the  day)  ; 
But  her  he  saw  not,  vanished  was  his  Love. 

The  year  is  old,  he  said,  and  skies  are  grey. 

The  wrong  was  mine!  he  cried.      I  left  my  dove 
(He  flung  him  down  upon  the  weeping  clay). 
And  now  I  find  her  flown — ah,  wellaway! 
The  house  is  desolate  that  held  my  Love, 

I  will  go  hence. 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


RONDEAUX  REDOUBLES  389 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  NORTH 

WAo  wins  my  hand  must  do  these  three  things  well: 
Skate  fast  as  winter  wind  across  the  glare; 

Swim  through  the  fiord,  fast  breaker,  rif  and  swell; 
Ride  like  the  Storm  Fiend  ott  7ny  snozv-zvhite  mare! 

Shall  a  maid  do  what  Viking  may  not  dare? 

I  wed  no  lover  I  can  aught  excel — 
Skate,  swim  and  ride  with  me,  and   I  declare, 

Who  wins  my  hand  must  do  these  three  things  well] 

Bind  on  your  skate?,  and  after  me  pell-mell; 

Follow  me.  Carles,  and  catch  my  streaming  hair! 
(Keep  the  black  ice — O  Bolstrom,  if  you  fell!) 

Skate  fast  as  winter  wind  across  the  glare! 

Thrice  have  I  swum  from  this  grey  cliff  to  where 

On  the  far  side,  the  angry  surges  yell; 
(Into  the  surf!      O  Bolstrom,  have  a  care!) 

Swiin  through  the  fiord,  fast  breaker,  rif  and  swell! 

Bring  out  my  Frieda,  none  but  I  can  quell; 

(Watch  her  eye,  Bolstrom,  when  you  mount — beware!) 
Ride  bareback  now  and  find  the  master-spell; 

Ride  like  the  Storm  Fiend  on  my  snow-white  mare! 

Skohl!      Vikings,  Skohl!      Am  I  not  bold  and  fair? 

Who  would  not  barter  Heaven,  and  venture  Hell, 
Striving  the  flower  of  my  love  to  wear? 

(Mind  my  words,  Bolstrom,  hark  to  what  I  tell!) 
Who  wins  my  hand? 

Gelett  Burgess 

RONDEAU  REDOUBLE 

My  day  and  night  are  in  my  lady's  hand; 
I  have  no  other  sunrise  than  her  sight; 

For  me  her  favour  glorifies  the  land; 
Her  anger  darkens  all  the  cheerful  light. 


390  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Her  face  is  fairer  than  the  hawthorn  white, 
When  all  a-flower  in  May  the  hedgerows  stand; 

While  she  is  kind,  I  know  of  no  affright; 
My  day  and  night  are  in  my  lady's  hand. 

All  heaven  in  her  glorious  eyes  is  spanned; 
Her  smile  is  softer  than  the  summer's  night. 

Gladder  than  daybreak  on  the  Faery  strand; 
I  have  no  other  sunrise  than  her  sight. 

Her  silver  speech  is  like  the  singing  flight 
Of  runnels  rippling  o'er  the  jewelled  sand; 

Her  kiss  a  dream  of  delicate  delight; 
For  me  her  favour  glorifies  the  land. 

What  if  the  Winter  chase  the  Summer  bland! 
The  gold  sun  in  her  hair  burns  ever  bright. 

If  she  be  sad,  straightway  all  joy  is  banned; 
Her  anger  darkens  all  the  cheerful  light. 

Come  weal  or  woe,  I  am  my  lady's  knight 
And  in  her  service  every  ill  withstand; 

Love  is  my  Lord  in  all  the  world's  despite 
And  holdeth  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 

My  day  and  night. 

Jo/in  Payne 


RONDEAU  REDOUBLE 

My  soul  is  sick  of  nightingale  and  rose, 
The  perfume  and  the  darkness  of  the  grove; 

I  weary  of  the  fevers  and  the  throes. 
And  all  the  enervating  dreams  of  love. 

At  morn  I  love  to  hear  the  lark,  and  rove 
The  meadows,  where  the  simple  daisy  shows 

Her  guiltless  bosom  to  the  skies  above — 
My  boul  is  sick  of  nightingale  and  rose. 


RONDEAUX  REDOUBLES  391 

The  afternoon  is  sweet,  and  sweet  repose, 
But  let  me  lie  where  breeze-blown   branches  move. 

I  hate  the  stillness  where  the  sunbeams  doze, 
The  perfume  and  the  darkness  of  the  grove. 

I  love  to  hear  at  eve  the  gentle  dove 
Contented  coo  the  day's  delightful  close. 

She  sings  of  love  and  all  the  calm  thereof, — 
1  weary  of  the  fevers  and  the  throes. 

I  love  the  night,  who  like  a  mother  throws 
Her  arms  round  hearts  that  throbbed  and  limbs 
that  strove, 

As  kind  as  Death,  that  puts  an  end  to  woes 
And  all  the  enervating  dreams  of  love. 

Because  my  soul  is  sick  of  fancies  wove 
Of  fervid  ecstasies  and  crimson  glows; 

Because  the  taste  of  cinnamon  and  clove 
Palls  on  my  palate — let  no  man  suppose 
My  soul  is  sick. 

Cosmo  Monkhouse 


A  COMPLACENT  RONDEAU  REDOUBLE 

Musis  amicus  tristitiam  et  metus 

tradam  protervis  in  mare. — Horace.     Book  I:  Ode  26 

T^e  Muses  love  me,  and  I  am  content. 
For  naught  to  me  is  either  grief  or  fear; 

The  winds  will  sweef  them  into  banishmen  , 
The  sea  will  drag  them  to  a  briny  bier. 

Let  others  quail  and,  trembling,  force  the  tear. 
And  cringe,  with  looks  that  on  the  ground  are  bent; 

Let  all  the  angry  powers  of  earth  appear, 
The  Muses  love  me — and  I  am  cotitent. 


392  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

What  though  the  days  of  joy  are  only  lent, 
What  though  the  skies  are  overcast  and  drear; 

I  care  not  if  the  thundering  heavens  be  rent, 
For  naught  to  me  is  either  grief  or  fear. 

Come,   then,   bright-hearted   nymph    from   brooklets  clear, 
A  garland  for  my  Lamia  weave;  nor  vent 

Thy  proud  disdain  upon  my  verses  here — 
The  winds  will  sweef  them  into  banishment. 

O,  come,  with  perfumed  words  from  Venus  sent 
And  twine  a  golden  couplet  for  our  cheer. 

(Mind  not  the  cares  that  mar  our  merriment; 
T he  sea  will  drag  them  to  a  briny  bier). 

Attune  my  strings  and  so,  for  many  a  year. 

Singing  of  thee  I  will  be  diligent; 
And  even  when  the  leaves  of  life  are  sere. 

One  thought  will  cheer  me  when  all  else  is  spent: 
The  Muses  love  me. 

Louis  Unterm^eyer 


V 


TRIOLETS 


( 


TRIOLET 

Easy  is  the  Triolet, 

If  you  really  learn  to  make  it! 
Once  a  neat  refrain  you  get, 
Easy  is  the  Triolet. 
As  you  see! — I  pay  my  debt 

With  another  rhyme.      Deuce  take  it, 
Easy  is  the  Triolet, 

If  you  really  learn  to  make  it! 

W.  E.  Henley 

THE  TRIOLET 

Your  triolet  should  glimmer 

Like  a  butterfly; 
In  golden  light,  or  dimmer, 
Your  triolet  should  glimmer. 
Tremble,  turn,  and  shimmer. 

Flash,  and  flutter  by; 
Your  triolet  should  glimmer 
Like  a  butterfly. 

Don  Marquis 

*. 
A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE  * 

A  pitcher  of  mignonette 

In  a  tenement's  highest  casement, — 

Queer   sort   of   flower-pot — yet 

That  pitcher  of  mignonette 

Is  a  garden  in  heaven  set. 

To  the  little  sick  child  in   the  basement — 

The  pitcher  of  mignonette. 

In  a  tenement's  highest  casement. 

Henr'y  Cuyler  Bunner 

*From   The   Poems   of  H.   C.   Btamer.     Copyright    1917   by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers. 

395 


0 


% 


396  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  SNOWFLAKE  IN  MAY 

•^  ,  (Triolet) 

• 

I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air 

When  smiling  May  had  decked  the  year, 
And  then  'twas  gone,  I  knew  not  where, — 
I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air. 
And  thought  perchance  an  angel's  prayer 

Had  fallen  from  some  starry  sphere; 
I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air 

When  smiling  May  had  decked  the  year. 

Clinton  Scollard 

AUGUST?  : 

Hottest  day  of  the  year 

\  Now,  isn't  it  hot? 

W    %  -J  There  is  really  no  breathing 

In  the  devil's  own  pot. 
Now,  isn't  it  hot? 
A  true  Hottentot 

Would  confess  he  was  seething 
-  In  a  city  so  hot. 

There  is  really  no  breathing! 

Brander  Matthews 

LES  ROSES  MORTES 

•  The  roses  are  dead. 

And   swallows   are    flying: 
White,  golden,  and  red. 
The  roses  are  dead; 
Yet   tenderly  tread 

Where  their  petals  are  lying: 
The  roses  are  dead, 

And  swallows  are  flying. 

Graham  R,  Tonison 


TRIOLETS  397 


MISTLETOE  AND  HOLLY 

The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 

Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 
Remember,  all  ye  modest  girls, 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 
And  when  it  hangs  above  your  curls, 

Away  with  melancholy! 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 
Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 


Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find, 
We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 

Oh!  do,  I  beg  of  you,  be  kind; 

Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find. 

Pretend  that  you  are  color-blind 
And  kiss  beneath  the  holly. 

Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find. 
We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 

T.  A.  Daly 


ROSE-LEAVES 

"Sans  feser. — Sans  rester." 

A    KISS 

Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 
Let  it  be  as  it  may, 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 
But  the  pleasure  gives  way 

To  a  savour  of  sorrow; — 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day, — 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 


I-' 


fiy» 


398  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


CIRCE 

In  the  School  of  Coquettes 
Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar: — 

O,  they  fish  with  all  nets 

In  the  School  of  Coquettes! 

When  her  brooch  she  forgets 
'Tis  to  show  her  new  collar; 

In  the  School  of  Coquettes 
Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar! 

A  TEAR 

There's  a  tear  in  her  eye, — 
Such  a  clear  little  jewel! 

What  can  make  her  cry? 

There's  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

"Puck  has  killed  a  big  fly, — 
And  it's  AorriI?ly  cruel;" 

There's  a  tear  in  her  eye, — 
Such  a  clear  little  jewel! 

A  GREEK  GIFT 

Here's  a  present  for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking! 

Is  it  verse? — is  it  prose? 

Here's  a  present  for  Rose! 

''Plats,"  "Entrees,"  and  "Rots,"— 
Why,  it's  "GoufFe  on  Cooking"! 

Here's  a  present   for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking! 


"URCEUS  exit" 


I  intended  an  Ode, 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 
It  began  a  la  mode, 
I  intended  an  Ode; 


TRIOLETS  399 

But  Rose  crossed  the  road 

In  her  latest  new  bonnet; 
I   intended  an   Ode; 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 

Austin  Dob  son 

UNDER  THE  ROSE 

HE   (aside) 

If  I  should  steal  a  little  kiss, 

Oh,  would  she  weep,  I  wonder? 
I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  bliss, — 
If  I  should  steal  a  little  kiss! 
Such  pouting  lips  would  nev^er  miss 

The  dainty  bit  of  plunder; 
If  I  should  steal  a  little  kiss. 

Oh,  would  she  weep,  I  wonder? 

SHE    (aside) 

He  longs  to  steal  a  kiss  of  mine — 

He  may,  if  he'll  return  it: 
If  I  can  read  the  tender  sign. 
He  longs  to  steal  a  kiss  of  mine; 
"In  love  and  war" — you  know  the  line 

Why  cannot  he  discern  it? 
He  longs  to  steal  a  kiss  of  mine — 

He  may  if  he'll  return  it. 

BOTH  (fiz'e  minutes  later) 

A  little  kiss  when  no  one  sees, 

Where  is  the  impropriety? 
How  sweet  amid  the  birds  and  bees 
A  little  kiss  when  no  one  sees! 
Nor  is  it  wrong,  the  world  agrees. 

If  taken  with  sobriety. 
A  little  kiss  when  no  one  sees. 

Where  is  the  impropriety? 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


400  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


A    ROSE 


'Twas  a  Jacqueminot  rose 

That  she  gave  me  at  parting; 

Sweetest  flower  that  blows, 

'Twas  a  Jacqueminot  rose. 

In  the  love  garden  close, 

With  the  swift  blushes  starting, 

'Twas  a  Jacqueminot  rose 
That  she  gave  me  at  parting. 

If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows — 
Since  I  will  not  discover, 

And  love  is  that  close, 

If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows? 

Or  if  not  the  red  rose 
Perhaps  then  the  lover! 

If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows. 
Since  I  will  not  discover. 

Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 
Went  a  kiss  that  I'm  wearing! 

More  I  will  not  disclose. 

Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 

Went  whose  kiss  no  one  knows, — 
Since  I'm  only  declaring, 

"Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 
Went  a  kiss  that  I'm  wearing." 

Arlo  Bates 


IN  EXPLANATION 

Her  lips  were  so  neai 

That — what  else  could  I  do? 
You'll  be  angry,  I  fear. 
But  her  lips  were  so  near — 


TRIOLETS  401 

Well,  I  can't  make  it  clear, 

Or  explain  it  to  you. 
But — her  lips  were  so  near 

That — what  else  could  I  do? 

Walter  Learned 

TWO  TRIOLETS 


(What  He  Said) 

This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press, 

Ah!  Saint  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it, 
And  may  it  from  its  soft  recess, 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press. 
Be  blown  to  you  a  shy  caress 

By  this  white  down  whene'er  you  use  it; 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press, 

Ah!  Saint  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it. 

II 

(What  She  Thought) 

To  kiss  a  fan! 

What  a  poky  poet! 
The  stupid   man 
To   kiss  a   fan, 
When    he    knows   that — he — can. 

Or  ought  to  know  it. 
To  kiss  a  fan! 

What  a  poky  poet! 

Harrison  Robertson 

APOLOGY 

Perhaps  I  made  a  slight  mistake; 

At  least  I  meant  to  kiss  the  rose. 
But  as  we  skimmed  the  frozen  lake 
1  may  have  made  a  slight  mistake. 


402  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

She  wore  the  rose,  and — goodness'  sake! 

How  like  they  were!     So  I  suppose 
I  may  have  made  a  slight  mistake; 

At  least  1  meant  to  kiss  the  rose. 

Arthur  Guiterman 

PARABLE 

What  is  it  makes  it  a  Hat? 

Many  things  added  together. 
(Women  are  also  like  that.) 
What  is  it  makes  it  a  Hat? 
Neither  the  felt  nor  the  plat. 

Neither  the   form   nor   the   feather. 
What  is  it  makes  it  a  Hat? 

Many   things   added    together. 

Arthur  Guiterman 

TRIOLET 

All  women  born  are  so  perverse 

No  man  need  boast  their  love  possessing. 

If  nought  seem   better,  nothing's  worse: 

All  women  born  are  so  perverse. 

From  Adam's  wife,  that  proved  a  curse 

Though  God  had  made  her  for  a  blessing, 

All  women  born  are  so  perverse 

No  man  need  boast  their  love  possessing. 

Robert  Bridges 

TRIOLET 

When   first  we  met  we  did  not  guess 
That  Love  would  prove  so  hard  a  master; 
Of  more  than  common  friendliness 
When  first  we  met  we  did  not  guess. 
Who  could  foretell  this  sore  distress. 
This    irretrievable    disaster 
When  first  we  met? — We  did  not  guess 
That  Love  would  prove  so  hard  a  master. 

Robert  Bridges 


TRIOLETS  403 


THISTLE-DOWN  * 

Thistle-down   is  a  woman's  love, — 

Thistle-down  with  the  wind  at  play. 
Let  him  who  wills  this  truth  to  prove, 

'Thistle-down   is  a  woman's  love,' 
Seek  her  innermost  heart  to  move. 

Though  the  wind  should  blow  her  vows  this  way. 
Thistle-down  is  a  woman's  love, — 

Thistle-down  with  the  wind  at  play. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton 


BLIND   LOVE 

Love  hath  wept  till  he  is  blind, 
Lovers,  guide  him  on  his  way; 

Though  he  be  of  fickle  mind, 

Love  hath  wept  till  he  is  blind. 

Once  ye  knew  him  fair  and  kind; 
Now,  alas  and  well-a-day! 

Love  hath  wept  till  he  is  blind — 
Lovers,  guide  him  on  his  way! 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


OF   HIMSELF 

A  poor  cicala,  piping  shrill, 

I  may  not  ape  the  Nightingale; 

I  sit  upon  the  sun-browned  hill, 

A  poor  cicala,  piping  shrill. 

When  summer  noon  is  warm  and  still. 
Content  to  chirp  my  homely  tale; 

A  poor  cicala,  piping  shrill, 
I  may  not  ape  the  Nightingale. 

Graha?n  R.  Toms  on 

*  From    Poems    and    Sonnets    by    Louise    Chandler    Moulton. 
Copyright  1909,  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Publishers. 


404  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


TRIOLET,  AFTER  CATULLUS 

"Jucundum,  mea  vita." 

Happy,  my  Life,  the  love  you  proffer, 

Eternal  as  the  gods  above; 
With  such  a  wealth  within  my  coffer, 
Happy  my  life.      The  love  you  proffer, — 
If  your  true  heart  sustains  the  offer, — 

Will  prove  the  Koh-i-noor  of  love; 
Happy  my  life!     The  love  you  proffer. 

Eternal  as  the  gods  above! 

Edmund  Gosss 

"PERSICOS  ODl" 

Davus,  I   detest 

Orient  display; 
Wreaths  on   linden   drest, 
Davus,  I  detest. 
Let  the  late  rose  rest 

Where  it  fades  away:— - 
Davus,  I   detest 

Orient  display. 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 
Therefore,  Boy,  for  me 

Sitting  'neath  the  vine, — 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine; 

Fitting  to  the  wine. 
Not  unfitting  thee; 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 
Therefore,  Boy,  for  me. 

Austin  Dob  son 

TRIOLETS  AFTER  MOSCHUS 

AJaZ  Tol  jiaXaxat  (li-v  knav  Kara,  kottov  bTiuvra' 
vdTEpov  av  C,U)ovTi  Koi  e'lq  eto^  aXko  <J)vovtl 
a^fiEQ  (5'  oi  fieyaXoi  koX  Kaprepoi,   ol  ao(j)ol  avdpeg 
dnnoTE  TTpara  Odvu/iEC,  avuKoni  ev  x^ovl  KoiX^ 
eMofieg  ev  fid?ia  fiaKpbv  arepfiova  vr/yperov  vrrvov. 


TRIOLETS  405 

Alas,  for  us  no  second  spring, 

Like  mallows  in  the  garden-bed, 
For  these  the  grave  has  lost  his  sting, 
Alas,  for  us  no  second  spring, 
Who  sleep  without  awakening. 

And,  dead,  for  ever  more  are  dead, 
Alas,  for  us  no  second  spring. 

Like  mallows  in  the  garden-bed! 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave. 

That  boast  themselves  the  sons  of  men! 

Once  they  go  down  into  the  grave — 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, — 

They  perish  and  have  none  to  save, 

They  are  sown,  and  are  not  raised  again; 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave. 
That  boast  themselves  the  sons  of  men! 

Afidrezv  Lang 

THE  SHELLEY  MEMORIAL 
(The  Master's  Sfeech) 

The  Rebel  of  eighty  years  ago 

Is  the  Hero  of  to-day. 
In  this  memorial  none  will  know 
The  Rebel  of  eighty  years  ago. 
We  Oxford  Dons,  however  slow. 

Are  now  at  last  compelled  to  say 
"The  Rebel  of  eighty  years  ago 

Is  the  Hero  of  to-day." 

Ernest  Radford 

TRIOLET  OF  THE  BIBLIOPHILE 

Be  it  mine  to  peruse 

Old  prints  and  editions; 
Books  our   fathers  might   use 
Be  it  mine  to  peruse. 


406  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Let  others  hunt  news 

And  go  mad  about  missions:— 

Be  it  mine  to  peruse 
Old  prints  and  editions. 

Charles  Sayle 

TRIOLET  TO  HER  HUSBAND 

(F.  Fertiault) 

Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be! 
Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 
What  more  can  I  require  of  thee? 
Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be! 
Contented  when  thy  bliss  I  see, 
I  wish  a  world  of  books  thine  own. 
Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be! 
Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 

Andrew  Lang 

SIX  TRIOLETS 

DEAR    READER 

If  you  never  write  verses  yourself, 
Dear  reader,  I  leave  it  with  you. 

You  will  grant  a  half-inch  of  your  shelf, 

If  you  never  write  verses  yourself. 

It  was  praised  by  some  lenient  elf. 
It  was  damned  by  a  heavy  review; 

If  you  never  write  verses  yourself. 
Dear  reader,  I  leave  it  with  you. 

TRANSPONTINE 

Ices — Programmes — Lemonade! 

'E  thinks  'e's  a  Hirving,  my  eye! 
Why,  Pussy,  you're  crying:  afraid? 
Ices — Programmes — Lemonade ! 
It's  the  first  time  you've  seen  a  piece  played? 

It's  pretty,  but.  Pussy,  don't  cry. 


TRIOLETS  407 


Ices — Programmes — Lemonade ! 
'E  thinks  'e's  a  Hirving,  my  eye! 


OUT 


I  killed  her?     Ah,  why  do  they  cheer? 

Are  those  twenty  years  gone  to-day? 
Why,  she  was  my  wife,  sir,  dear — so  dear. 
I  killed  her?      Ah,  why  do  they  cheer? 

.   ,   .  Ah,  hound!     He  was  shaking  with  fear, 
And  I  rushed — with  a  knife,  they  say.  .  .  . 
I  killed  her?     Ah,  why  do  they  cheer? 

Are  those  twenty  years  gone  to-day? 


A    HUPROAR 

Down  'Ob'n,  sir?     Circus,  Bank,  Bank! 

'Ere's  a  huproar,  my  bloomin',  hoif  side! 
A  flower,  miss?     Ah,  thankee,  miss,  thank — 
Down  'Ob'n,  sir?     Circus,  Bank,  Bank! 
'Igher  up!     'Ullo,  Bill,  wot  a  prank! 

If  that  'ere  old  carcase  ain't  shied! 
Down  'Ob'n,  sir?      Circus,  Bank,  Bank! 

'Ere's  a  huproar,  my  bloomin',  hoff  side! 

SPRING   VOICES 

Fine  Violets!  fresh  Violets!  come  buy! 

Ah,  rich  man!  I  would  not  be  you. 
All  spring-time  it  haunts  me,  that  cry: — 
Fine  Violets!  fresh  Violets!  come  buy! 
Whose  loss  If  she  tell  me  a  lie? 

"They're  starving;  my  God,  sir,  it's  true." 
Fine  Violets!    fresh  Violets!   come  buy! 

Ah,  rich  man!  I  would  not  be  you! 

*  V.  Police  Reports  of  the  release  of  George  Hall  from  Birm- 
ingham prison. 


408  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BETWEEN    THE    LINES 

Cigar  lights!  yer  honour?     Cigar  lights? 

May  God  forget  you  in  your  need. 
Ay,  damn  you!  if  folks  get  their  rights 
(Cigar  lights!  yer  honour? — cigar  lights) 
Their  babies  shan't  starve  in  the  nights 

For  wanting  the  price  of  your  weed — 
Cigar  lights!  yer  honour?      Cigar  lights! 

May  God  forget  you  in  your  need! 

Ernest  Radford 


SERENADE  TRIOLET 

Why  is  the  moon 

Awake  when  thou  sleepest? 
To  the  nightingale's  tune 
Why  is  the  moon 
Making  a  noon 

When  night  is  the  deepest? 
Why  is  the  moon 

Awake  when  thou  sleepest? 

George  Macdonald 


SONG 


I  was  very  cold 

In  the  summer  weather; 
The  sun  shone  all  his  gold, 
But  I  was  very  cold — 
Alone,  we  were  grown  old. 

Love  and  I  together! — 
Oh,  but   I   was  cold 

In  the  summer  weather! 


TRIOLETS  409 


II 


Sudden  I  grew  warmer, 

When  the  brooks  were  frozen: — 
"To  be  angry  is  to  harm  her," 
1  said,  and  straight  grew  warmer. 
"Better  men,  the  charmer 

Knows  at  least  a  dozen!" — 
I  said,  and  straight  grew  warmer, 

Though  the  brooks  were  frozen. 


Ill 


Spring  sits  on  her  nest — 

Daisies  and  white  clover; 
And  my  heart  at  rest 
Lies  in  the  spring's  young  nest: 
My  love  she  loves  me  best. 

And  the  frost  is  over! 
Spring  sits  on  her  nest — 

Daisies  and  white  clover! 

George  Macdonald 


TRIOLET 

In  the  light,  in  the  shade. 

This  is  time  and  life's  measure: 

With  a  heart  unafraid. 

In  the  light,  in  the  shade, 

Hope  is  born  and  not  made. 
And  the  heart  finds  its  treasure 

In  the  light,  in  the  shade; 

This  is  time  and  life's  measure. 

Walter  Crane 


410  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

VESTIGIA 


I  saw  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
That  day  we  walked  together. 

Across  the  field  where  the  pond  was 

I  saw  her  shadow  on  the  grass. 

And  now  I  sigh  and  say,  Alas! 
That  e'er  in  summer  weather 

I  saw  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
That  day  we  walked  together! 

II 

Hope  bowed  his  head  in  sleep: 

Ah  me  and  wellaway! 
Although  I  cannot  weep, 
Hope  bowed  his  head  in  sleep. 
The  heavy  hours  creep: 

When  is  the  break  of  day? 
Hope  bowed  his  head  in  sleep, 

Ah  me  and  wellaway! 

Ill 

The  sea  on  the  beach 

Flung  the  foam  of  its  ire. 

We  watched  without  speech 

The  sea  on  the  beach, 

And  we  clung  each  to  each 
As  the  tempest  shrilled  higher 

And  the  sea  on  the  beach 
Flung  the  foam  of  its  ire. 

IV 

When  Love  is  once  dead 
Who  shall  awake  him? 


TRIOLETS  411 

Bitter  our  bread 

When  Love  is  once  dead 

His  comforts   are  fled, 

His  favours  forsake  him. 
When  Love  is  once  dead 

Who   shall   awake  him? 


Love  is  a  swallow 

Flitting  with  spring: 
Though  we  would  follow, 
Love  is  a  swallow, 
All  his  vows  hollow: 

Then  let  us  sing,—- 
Love  is  a  swallow 

Flitting  with  spring. 

Arthur  Symons 


TRIOLET 

Oh,  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord 

For  his  goodness  unto  men! 
Forth  he  sends  his  saving  word, 

— Oh,  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord!- 
And  from  shades  of  death  abhorred 

Lift  them  up  to  light  again: 
Oh,  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord 

For  his  goodness  unto  men. 

George  Macdonald 


SONG 

I  make  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows — 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair, 
With  stitches  set  in   even  rows, 
I  make  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows. 


412  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

In  door-way  where  the  lilac  blows, 
Humming  a  little  wandering  air, 
I  make  my  shroud  and  no  one  knows. 
So  shimmering  fine   it  is  and   fair. 

Adelaide  Crafsey 


VILLANELLES 


VILLANELLE 


Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die 

When  low-hung  fruit  is  hardly  clinging, 
And  golden  Autumn  passes  by? 

Beneath  this  delicate  rose-gray  sky, 

While  sunset  bells  are  faintly  ringing, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die? 

For  wintry  webs  of  mist  on  high 

Out  of  the  muffled  earth  are  springing, 
And  golden  Autumn  passes  by. 

O  now  when  pleasures  fade  and  fly. 

And  Hope  her  southward  flight  is  winging, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die? 

Lest  Winter  come,  with  wailing  cry 

His  cruel  icy  bondage  bringing, 
When  golden  Autumn  hath  passed  by. 

And  thou,  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh. 

While  life  her  wasted  hands  is  wringing, 
Shalt  pray  in  vain  for  leave  to  die 
When  golden  Autumn  hath  passed  by, 

Edmuni  Gosse 


VILLANELLE 

Little  mistress  mine,  good-bye! 

1  have  been  your  sparrow  true; 
Dig  my  grave,  for  I  must  die. 

Waste  no  tear  and  heave  no  sigh; 

Life  should  still  be  blithe  for  you, 
Little  mistress  mine,  good-bye! 
415 


416  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

In  your  garden  let  me  lie, 

Underneath  the  pointed  yew 
Dig  my  grave,  for  I  must  die. 

We  have  loved  the  quiet  sky 

With  its  tender  arch  of  blue; 
Little  mistress  mine,  good-bye! 

That  I  still  may  feel  you  nigh, 

In  your  virgin  bosom,  too, 
Dig  my  grave,  for  1  must  die. 

Let  our  garden  friends  that  fly 
Be  the  mourners,  fit  and  few. 
Little  mistress  mine,  good-bye! 
Dig  my  grave,  for  I  must  die. 

Edmund  Gosse 


"A  VOICE  IN  THE  SCENTED  NIGHT" 

(Villanelle  at  Verona) 

A  voice  in  the  scented  night, — 

A  step  where  the  rose-trees  blow, — 
O  Love,  and  O  Love's  delight! 

Cold  star  at  the  blue  vault's  height. 

What  is  it  that  shakes  you  so? 
A  voice  in  the  scented  night! 

She  comes  in  her  beauty  bright, — 

She  comes  in  her  young  love's  glow, — 
O  Love,  and  O  Love's  delight! 

She  bends  from  her  casement  white. 
And  she  hears  it,  hushed  and  low, 
A  voice  in  the  scented  night. 

And  he  climbs  by  that  stairway  slight, — 

Her  passionate  Romeo: — 
O  Love,  and  O  Love's  delight! 


VILLANELLES  417 

For  it  stirs  us  still  in  spite 

Of  its  "ever  so  long  ago," 
That  voice  in  the  scented  night, — 
O  Love,  and  O  Love's  delight! 

Austin  Do  I?  son 


FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS 

O  singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Theocritus!      Pan's  pipe  was  thine, — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould. 
The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold! 

Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  old, — 
The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine.   . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told, — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold! 

And  round  thee,  ever-laughing,  rolled 
The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine.   .   .   . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Alas  for  us!     Our  songs  are  cold; 
Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine: — 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold. 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold! 

Austin  Dob  son 


"WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE' 

When  1  saw  you  last.  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 


418  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows, 
You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose! 

Now  your  petals  unclose, 
Now  your  May-time  is  nigh; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

And  a  life, — how  it  grows! 
You  were  scarcely  so  shy, 
When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose! 

In  your  bosom  it  shows 
There's  a  guest  on  the  sly; 
(How  fast  the  time  goes!) 

Is  it  Cupid?      Who  knows! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh. 
When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

Austin  Dob  son 


ON  A  NANKIN  PLATE 

"Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been! 
Was  there  ever  so  dismal  a  fate?" — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin 

"Such  a  maid  as  was  never  seen! 
She  passed,  tho'  I  cried  to  her,  'Wait,'- 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been! 

"I  cried,  'O  my  Flower,  my  Queen, 
Be  mine!'  'Twas  precipitate," — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin, — 

"But  then  .  .  .  she  was  just  sixteen, — 
Long-eyed, — as  a  lily  straight, — 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been! 


VILLANELLES  419 

"As  it  was,  from  her  palankeen, 
She  laughed — 'You're  a  week  too  late!'  " 
(Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin.) 

"That  is  why,  in  a  mist  of  spleen, 
I  mourn  on  this  Nankin  Plate. 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been!" — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin. 

Ausiin  Dobson 


VILLANELLE 

(To  Lucia) 

Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse 

And  shepherded  a  mortal's  sheep, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse! 

To  mock  the  giant  swain  that  woos 

The  sea-nymph  in  the  sunny  deep, 
Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse, 

Afield  he  drove  his  lambs  and  ewes. 

Where  Milon  and  where  Battus  reap, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse! 

To  watch  thy  tunny-fishers  cruise 

Below  the  dim  Sicilian  steep 
Apollo  left  the  Golden  Muse! 

Ye  twain  did  loiter  in  the  dews, 

Ye  slept  the  swain's  unfever'd  sleep, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse! 

That  Time  might  half  with  his  confuse 

Thy  songs, — like  his,  that  laugh  and  leap,- 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse, 
Apollo  left  the  Golden  Muse! 

Andrew  Lang 


420  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


VILLANELLE 

(To  M.  Josefh  Boulmiefy  Author  of 
''Les  Villanelles:') 

Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute? 

Hath  the  singer  ceased  to  sing? 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute? 

Many  a  pipe  and  scrannel  flute 

On  the  breeze  their  discords  fling; 
Villanelle,  why  art  ihou  mute? 

Sound  of  tumult  and  dispute, 

Noise  of  war  the  echoes  bring; 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute? 

Once  he  sang  of  bud  and  shoot 

In  the  season  of  the  Spring; 

Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute? 

Fading  leaf  and  falling  fruit 

Say,  "The  year  is  on  the  wing, 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute?" 

Ere  the  axe  lie  at  the  root. 

Ere  the  winter  come  as  king, 
Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute? 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute? 

Andrew  Lang 

VILLANELLE 

A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle. 

Sly,  musical,  a  jewel  in  rhyme, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

A  double-clappered  silver  bell 

That  must  be  made  to  clink  in  chime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 


VILLANELLES  All 

And  if  you  wish  to  flute  a  spell, 

Or  ask  a  meeting  'neath  the  lime, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

You  must  not  ask  of  it  the  swell 

Of  organs  grandiose  and  sublime — 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 

And,  filled  with  sweetness,  as  a  shell 

Is  filled  with  sound,  and  launched  in  time. 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

Still  fair  to  see  and  good  to  smell 

As  in  the  quaintness  of  its  prime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


VILLANELLE 

In  the  clatter  of  the  train 

Is  a  promise  brisk  and  bright. 
I  shall  see  my  love  again! 

I  am  tired  and  fagged  and  fain; 

But  I  feel  a  still  delight 
In  the  clatter  of  the  train. 

Hurry-hurrying  on  amain 

Through  the  moonshine  thin  and  white 
I  shall  see  my  love  again! 

Many  noisy  miles  remain; 
But  a  sympathetic  sprite 
In  the  clatter  of  the  train 

Hammers  cheerful: — that  the  strain 

Once  concluded  and  the  fight, 
I  shall  see  my  love  again. 


422  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Yes,  the  overword  is  plain, — 
If  it's  trivial,  if  it's  trite — 
In  the  clatter  of  the  train: 
"I  shall  see  my  love  again." 

W.  E.  Henley 

VILLANELLE  07  MARGUERITES 

*M  little,  fassionately ,  not  at  all?" 
She  casts  the  snowy  petals  on  the  air; 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall? 

Nay,  wherefore  seek  the  seasons  to  forestall? 
It  is  but  playing,  and  she  will  not  care, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all! 

She  would  not  answer  us  if  we  should  call 
Across  the  years;  her  visions  are  too  fair; 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall! 

She  knows  us  not,  nor  recks  if  she  enthrall 
With  voice  and  eyes  and  fashion  of  her  hair, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all! 

Knee-deep  she  goes  in  meadow-grasses  tall, 
Kissed  by  the  daisies  that  her  fingers  tear; 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall! 

We  pass  and  go;  but  she  shall  not  recall 
What  men  we  were,  nor  all  she  made  us  bear; 
"A  little,  fassionately,  not  at  all!" 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall! 

Ernest  Dowson 


VILLANELLE  OF  ACHERON 

By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron 

Methinks  we  shall  pass  restfully, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 


ir 


VILLANELLES  .     423 

'I. 


There  all  men  hie  them  one  by  one, 

Far  from  the  stress  of  earth  and  sea, 
By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron. 

'Tis  well  when  life  and  love  is  done, 

'Tis  very  well  at  last  to  be. 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 

No  busy  voices  there  shall  stun 

Our  ears:  the  stream  flows  silently 
By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron. 

There  is  the  crown  of  labour  won, 

The  sleep  of  immortality, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 

Life,  of  thy  gifts  I  will  have  none. 

My  Queen  is  that  Persephone, 
By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 

Ernest  Dowson 


VILLANELLE  OF  SUNSET 

Come  hither,  child!  and  rest: 

This  is  the  end  of  day. 
Behold  the  weary  West! 
Sleep  rounds  with  equal  zest 

Man's  toil  and  children's  play: 
Come  hither,  child!   and  rest. 
My  white  bird,  seek  thy  nest. 

Thy  drooping  head  down  lay: 
Behold  the  weary  West! 
Now  are  the  flowers  confest 

Of  slumber:  sleep,  as  they! 
Come  hither,  child!  and  rest. 
Now  eve  is  manifest. 

And  homeward  lies  our  way: 
Behold  the  weary  West! 


■I, 


424  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Tired  flower!  upon  my  breast, 

I  would  wear  thee,  alway: 
Come  hither,  child!  and  rest; 
Behold,  the  weary  West! 

Ernest  Dowson 


VILLANELLE  OF  THE  POET'S  ROAD 


Wine  and  woman  and  song. 

Three  things  garnish  our  way: 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Lest  we  do  our  youth  wrong. 

Gather  them  while  we  may: 
Wine  and  woman  and  song. 

Three  things  render  us  strong. 

Vine  leaves,  kisses  and  bay; 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Unto  us  they  uelong. 

Us  the  bitter  and  gay. 
Wine  and  woman  and  song. 

We,  as  we  pass  along, 

Are  sad  that  they  will  not  stay; 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Fruits  and   flowers   among, 
What  is  better  than  they: 

Wine  and  woman  and  song? 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Ernest  Dowson 


VILLANELLE  OF  HIS  LADY'S  TREASURES 

I  took  her  dainty  eyes,  as  well 

As  silken  tendrils  of  her  hair: 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle! 


VILLANELLES  425 

I  took  her  voice,  a  silver  bell, 

As  clear  as  song,  as  soft  as  prayer; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

"It  may  be,"  said  I,  "who  can  tell," 

"These  things  shall  be  my  less  despair?" 
And  so  I   made  a  Villanelle! 

1  took  her  whiteness  virginal 

And  from  her  cheek  two  roses  rare: 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

1  said:  "It  may  be  possible 

Her  image  from  my  heart  to  tear!" 
And  so  1  made  a  Villanelle. 

I  stole  her  laugh,  most  musical: 

I  wrought  it  in  with  artful  care; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well; 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle. 

Ernest  Dow  son 


PAN.— A  VILLANELLE 

O  Goat-foot  God  of  Arcady! 

Cyllene's  shrine  is  grey  and  old; 
This  northern  isle  hath  need  of  thee! 

No  more  the  shepherd  lads  in  glee 

Throw  apples  at  thy  wattled  fold, 
O  Goat-foot  God  of  Arcady! 

Nor  through  the  laurels  can  one  see 

Thy  soft  brown  limbs,  thy  head  of  gold: 
This  northern  isle  hath  need  of  thee! 

Then  leave  the  tomb  of  Helice, 

Where  nymph  and  faun  lie  dead  and  cold, 
O  Goat-foot  God  of  Arcady; 


426  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

For  many  an  unsung  elegy 

Sleeps  in  the  reeds  our  rivers  hold: 
This  northern  isle  hath  need  of  thee. 

And  thine  our  English  Thames  shall  be, 
The  open  lawns,  the  upland  wold, 

O   Goat-foot   God   of  Arcady, 

This  northern  isle  hath  need  of  thee! 

Oscar  Wilde 


THEOCRITUS 

O  Singer  of  Persephone! 

In   the  dim  meadows  desolate. 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Still  through  the  ivy  flits  the  bee 
Where  Amaryllis  lies  in  state; 
O  Singer  of  Persephone! 

Simastha  calls  on   Hecate, 

And  hears  the  wild  dogs  at  the  gate; 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Still  by  the  light  and  laughing  sea 

Poor  Polypheme  bemoans  his  fate; 
O  Singer  of  Persephone! 

And  still  in  boyish  rivalry 

Young  Daphnis  challenges  his  mate; 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Slim  Lacon  keeps  a  goat  for  thee; 

For  thee  the  jocund  shepherds  wait; 
O  Singer  of  Persephone! 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Oscar  Wilde 


VILLANELLES  427 


VILLANELLE 

The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging; 
Between  the  gusts  that  come  and  go 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Methinks  I  see  the  primrose  springing 
On  many  a  bank  and  hedge,  although 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Surely,  the  hands  of  Spring  are  flinging 
Wood-scents  to  all  the  winds  that  blow: 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Methinks  I  see  the  swallow  winging 
Across  the  woodlands  sad  with  snow; 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Was  that  the  cuckoo's  wood-chime  swinging? 
Was  that  the  linnet  fluting  low? 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Or  can  it  be  the  breeze  is  bringing 
The  breath  of  violets?      Ah,  no! 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

It  is  my  lady's  voice  that's  stringing 
Its  beads  of  gold  to  song;  and  so 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

The  violets  I  see  upspringing 
Are  in  my  lady's  eyes,  I  trow: 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Dear,  whilst  thy  tender  tones  are  ringing, 
Even  whilst  amid  the  winter's  woe 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Jo/m  Payne 


428  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


VILLANELLE 

The  thrush's  singing  days  are  fled 
His  heart  is  dumb  for  love  and  pain: 
The  nightingale  shall  sing  instead. 

Too  long  the  wood-bird's  heart  hath  bled 
With  love  and  dole  at  every  vein: 
The  thrush's  singing  days  are  fled. 

The  music  in  his  breast  is  dead. 
His  soul  will  never  flower  again: 
The  nightingale  shall  sing  instead. 

Love's  rose  has  lost  its  early  red, 
The  golden  year  is  on  the  wane; 
The  thrush's  singing  days  are  fled. 

The  years  have  beaten  down  his  head, 
He's  mute  beneath  the  winter's  rain: 
The  nightingale  shall  sing  instead. 

Hard  use  hath  snapped  the  golden  thread 
Of  all  his  wild-wood  songs  in  twain; 
The  thrush's  singing  days  are  fled. 

His  voice  is  dumb  for  drearihead: 
What  matters  it?     In  wood  and  lane 
The  nightingale  shall  sing  instead. 

Dear,  weary  not  for  what  is  sped. 
What  if,  for  stress  of  heart  and  brain, 
The  thrush's  singing  days  are  fled; 
The  nightingale  shall  sing  instead. 

Jo/in  Payne 


VILLANELLES  429 

TO  HESPERUS 

(After  Bion) 

0  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night, 
Too  soon,  to-day,  the  moon  arose; 

1  pray  thee,  knd  thy  lovely  light. 

Than  any  other  star  more  bright 
An  hundredfold  thy  beauty  glows, 

0  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night. 

Too  soon  Selene  gained  the  height, 
And  now  no  more  her  glory  shows; 

1  pray  thee,  lend  thy  lovely  light. 

Anon  our  revel  of  delight 

Towards  the  shepherd's  dwelling  goes, 

0  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night! 

And  I  must  lead  the  dance  aright. 
Yea — even  I — for  me  they  chose: 

1  pray  thee,  lend  thy  lovely  light. 

No  thief  am  I,  nor  evil  wight, 

Nor  numbered  with  the  traveller's  foes, 

0  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night! 

None  would  I  spoil,  nor  e'en  affright; 
Mine  are  the  Lover's  joys  and  woes; 

1  pray  thee,  lend  thy  lovely  light. 

For  good  it  is,  in  all  men's  sight 

(Thou  knowest  well),  to  favour  those, 
O  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night! 

Thy  golden  lamp  hath  turned  to  white 
The  silver  of  the  olive-close; 

0  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night! 

1  pray  thee,  lend  thy  lovely  light. 

Graham  R.  Tomson 


430  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


JEAN-FRANCOIS  MILLET 

O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New! 

We  speak  thy  name  with  bated  breath; 
Thy  waking  years  were  all  too  few. 

With  airs  that  erst  in  Athens  blew 

Thy  toil's  full  harvest  murmureth, 
O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New! 

In  misty  pastures,  dim  with  dew, 

Thy  sad,  strong  spirit  slumbereth; 
Thy  waking  years  were  all  too  few. 

The  forms  thy  potent  pencil  drew 

On  sunset  light  move  strong  as  Death, 
O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New! 

The  sowing  seasons  turn  anew, 
And  toiling  man  continueth; 
TAy  waking  years  were  all  too  few. 

Dark  Orcus  veils  thee  from  our  view 

On  vast,  low  meadow-lands  of  Death, 
O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New. 

Now  men  their  tardy  laurels  strew. 

And  Fame,  remorseful,  sobbing  saith, 
'O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New, 
Thy  waking  years  were  all  too  few!' 

Graham  R.   Tonison 


VILLANELLE  TO  THE  DAFFODIL 

O  daffodil,  flower  saffron-gowned, 

Effulgent  with  the  Sun-god's  gold, 
Thou  bring'st  the  joyous  season   round! 


VILLANELLES  431 

While  yet  the  earth  Is  blanched  and  browned 

Thou  dost  thy  amber  leaves  unfold, 
O  daffodil,  flower  saffron-gowned. 

We  see  thee  by  yon  mossy  mound 

Wave   from  thy  stalks  each  pennon   bold, — 
Thou  bring'st  the  joyous  season  round! 

Fair  child  of  April,  promise-crowned. 

We  longed  for  thee  when  winds  were  cold, 
O  daffodil,  flower  saffron-gowned. 

Again  we  hear  the  merry  sound 

Of  sweet  birds  singing   love-songs  old, — 
Thou  bring'st  the  joyous  season  round! 

Again  we  feel  our  hearts  rebound 

With  pleasures  by  thy  birth  foretold, — 
O  daffodil,  flower  saffron-gowned. 
Thou  bring'st  the  joyous  season  round! 

Clinton  Scollard 


VILLANELLE  TO  HELEN 

Man's  very  voice  is  stilled  on  Troas'  shore. 
Sweet  Xanthus  and  Simois  both  are  mute, 
Thus  have  the  gods  ordained  forevermore! 

Springs  the  rank  weed  where  bloomed  the  rose  before, 

Unplucked  on  Ida  hangs  the  purple  fruit, 
Man's  very  voice  is  stilled  on  Troas'  shore. 

Where  heavenly  walls  towered  proud  and  high  of  yore. 

Unharmed  now  strays  abroad  the  savage  brute, 
Thus  have  the  gods  ordained   forevermore! 

And  they,  the  wronged,  that  wasting  sorrow  bore, 

Alas!  their  tree  hath  withered  to  the  root, 
Man's  very  voice  is  stilled  on  Troas'  shore. 


432  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

In  Lacedsemon,  loved  of  heroes  hoar, 

No  trumpet  sounds,  but  piping  shepherd's  flute, 
Thus  have  the  gods  ordained  forevermore! 

And  thou,  the  cause,  through  Aphrodite's  lore, 
Unblamed,  art  praised  on  poet's  lyre  and  lute — 

Man's  very  voice  is  stilled  on  Troas'  shore. 

Thu'J  have  the  gods  ordained  forevermore! 

Clinton  Scollard 


LOVE,  WHY  SO  LONG  AWAY 

Love,  why  so  long  away 

Beyond  the  hollow  seas? 
Return,  return,  I  pray! 

Though  skies  be  wild  and  gray. 
And  rill  and  fountain  freeze, 
Love,  why  so  long  away? 

Ah,  wait  not  till  the  May 

Shall  bring  the  birds  and  bees! 
Return,  return,  I  pray! 

Weirdly  chill  night  and  day 

The  winds  sob  in  the  trees j 
Love,  why  so  long  away? 

I  seem  to  hear  them  say 

Across  snow-drifted  leas, 
"Return,  return,  I  pray!" 

And  ever,  sad  as  they. 

Calls  echo  down  the  breeze, 
'■'■Return, — return, — / — fray  !'* 
Love,  why  so  long  away? 

Clinton  Scollard 


VILLANELLES  43  3 


A  VILLANELLE  OF  LOVE 

Ask  not  if  Love  no  Passion  knows, 
Since  kissing  thee,  I  did  desire 
To  hold  thee  like  a  flaming  rose. 

How  should  I  reason  well  when  glows 
My  memory  of  thee  as  a  fire? 
Ask  not  if  Love  no  passion  knows. 

What  wouldst  thou  then?  that  Love  should  close 
His  eager  wings  that  would  come  nigher 
To  hold  thee  like  a  flaming  rose? 

When  beauty  from  thy  gaze  yet  flows 
Like  wind  across  my  heart,  a  lyre, 
Ask  not  if  Love  no  passion  knows.  - 

That  deep  soft  double  flower  that  grows 
Upon  thy  breast  doth  Love  inspire 
To  hold  thee  like  a  flaming  rose. 

Is  Love  then  less  when  Passion  shows 
Him  how  most  sweetly  to  desire? 
Ask  not  if  Love  no  passion  knows 
To  hold  thee  like  a  flaming  rose! 

R.  L.  Megroz 


VILLANELLE 

O  fleet  of  foot  as  Artemis, 

With  silvern  wings  upon  thy  feet. 

Why  dost  thou  flee  from  lover's  kiss? 

Hast  thou  no  other  gift  than  this. 

The  slow  sweet  smile  wherewith  to  greet, 

O  fleet  of  foot  as  Artemis? 


434  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  slim,  cool  fingers  to  dismiss 
With  farewell  touch  serene,  discreet? 
Why  dost  thou  flee  from  lover's  kiss? 

E'en  Dian  (old  the  fancy  is) 
Once  found  a  mortal's  kisses  sweet, 
O  fleet  of  foot  as  Artemis! 

And  stooped  to  taste  of  human  bliss. 
If  she  could  leave  her  cloudy  seat, 
Why  dost  thou  flee  from  lover's  kiss? 

Know'st  thou  not  truth  from  artifice? 
Ah!   read  my  eyes  when  next  we  meet! 
O  fleet  of  foot  as  Artemis, 
Why  dost  thou  flee  from  lover's  kiss? 

Gareth  Marsh  Stanton 

AT  A  BRETON  SEA-BLESSING 

(Breton  Villanelle) 

Oh,  gentle  Lady  of  God's  sea. 

Lest  faithless  souls  fear  Saints  asleep. 
Bless  sorrow-laden  Brittany! 

God's  sea  is  full-fed;  hungry  we, 

Whose  nets  drag  empty  thro'  the  deep, 
Oh,  gentle  Lady  of  God's  sea! 

God's  sea  Is  full-fed;  hear  the  plea 

From  starving  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap: 
"Bless  sorrow-laden  Brittany!" 

God's  sea  is  hungry;  agony 

Shrills  thro'  the  wind  as  widows  weep, 
Oh,  gentle  Lady  of  God's  sea! 

God's  sea  is  hungry;  hauntlngly 

The  children's  wailings  heav'nward  sweep: 
"Bless  sorrow-laden  Brittany!" 


VILLANELLES  4-3  5 

0  Hope,  O  Help,  we  kneel  to  thee 
When  wrecking  breakers  boom  and  leap: 

"Oh,  gentle  Lady  of  God's  sea, 
Bless  sorrow-laden  Brittany!" 

Margaret  Lovell  Andrews 

VILLANELLE 

Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing, 
When  none  but  I  had  heart  to  hear, 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

But,  ah!  the  wild  notes  would  not  ring 
As  once  they  rang — so  loud  and  clear! 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing. 

1  saw  the  rowan-clusters  cling. 

And  far  away  and  yet  so  near 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

Almost  I  found  a  long-lost  Spring, 

Almost  the  loves  I  held  so  dear. 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing 

For  joys  that  had  their  blossoming 

Beyond  the  grief  of  each  gray  year 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing; 

But  the  dew  wrapped  him,  glistening. 

And  every  dew-drop  told  a  tear 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing. 

While,  throbbing  heart  and  dropping  wing, 

And  chill  claws  grasping  at  his  bier, 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

But  I  shall  know  when  hailstorms  sting, 
And  not  forget  when  leaves  are  sere. 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 


436  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


WHEN  THE  BROW  OF  JUNE 

When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose 
And  the  air  is  fain  and  faint  with  her  breath, 
Then  the  Earth  hath  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes; — 

The  Earth  hath  rest  and  forgetteth  her  woes 

As  she  watcheth  the  cradle  of  Love  and  Death, 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose. 

^  Love  and  Death  who  are  counted  for  foes, 

She  sees  you  twins  of  one  mind  and  faith — 
The  Earth  at  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

You  are  twins  to  the  mother  who  sees  and  knows; 

(Let  them  strive  and  thrive  together)  she  saith — 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose. 

They  strive,  and  Love  his  brother  outgrows, 

But  for  strength  and  beauty  he  travaileth 
On  the  Earth  at  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes 

And  still  when  his  passionate  heart  o'erflows, 
Death  winds  about  him  a  bridal  wreath — 
As  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose! 

So  the  bands  of  death  true  lovers  enclose, 

For  Love  and  Death  are  as  Sword  and  Sheath 
When  the  Earth  hath  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

They  are  Sword  and  Sheath,  they  are  Life  and  its  Shows 

Which  lovers  have  grace  to  see  beneath, 
When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose 
And  the  Earth  hath  rest  from  her  long  birth-throes. 

Emily  Pfeiffer 


VILLANELLES  437 


ACROSS  THE  WORLD  I  SPEAK  TO  THEE 

Across  the  world  I  speak  to  thee; 

Where'er  thou  art  (I  know  not  where), 
Send  thou  a  messenger  to  me! 

I  here  remain,  who  would  be  free, 

To  seek  thee  out  through  foul  or  fair, 
Across  the  world  I  speak  to  thee. 

Whether  beneath  the  tropic  tree, 

The  cooling  night  wind  fans  thy  hair, — 
Send  thou  a  messenger  to  me! 

Whether  upon  the  rushing  sea, 

A  foamy  track  thy  keel  doth  wear, — 
Across  the  world  I  speak  to  thee. 

Whether  in  yonder  star  thou  be, 
A  spirit  loosed  in  purple  air, — 
Send  thou  a  messenger  to  me! 

Hath  Heaven  not  left  thee  memory 

Of  what  was  well  in  mortal's  share? 
Across  the  world  I  speak  to  thee; 
Send  thou  a  messenger  to  me! 

EditA  M.  Thomas 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL* 

They  are  all  gone  away; 

The  House  is  shut  and  still. 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say, 

*  From  The  Children  of  the  Night.  Copyright  1896-1897 
by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Published  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


438  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Through  broken  walls  and  gray 

The  winds  blow  bleak  and  shrill; 
They  are  all  gone  away. 

Nor  is  there  one  to-day 

To  speak  them  good  or  ill: 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Why  is  it  then  we  stray 

Around  that  sunken  sill? 
They  are  all  gone  away, 

And  our  poor  fancy-play 

For  them  is  wasted  skill: 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

There  is  ruin  and  decay 

In  the  House  on  the  Hill: 
They  are  all  gone  away, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


MY  DEAD  DOGS 

(  Villanelle) 

Dear,  faithful  beasts  who  went  before — 
Who  iwam  Death's  river  undismayed— 
I'll  find  them  on  the  further  shore! 

When  Charon  grimly  rows  me  o'er 

Vixen  will  bark  and  Jack  who  stayed- 
Dear,  faithful  beasts  who  went  before! 

Rover  will  gambol  more  and  more. 

And  Roy,  the  shy,  be  unafraid, — 
I'll  find  them  on  the  further  shore! 

Sweet  Clyde  again  shall  guard  my  door. 

And  Wasp  be  near  my  footstool  laid,— 
Dear,  faithful  beasts  who  went  before! 


VILLANELLES  439 

Death  shall  their  precious  love  restore, 

Their  emerald  eyes  will  light  the  Shade; 
I'll    find    them   on   the    further   shore! 

For  ever,  then,  shall  they  outpour 

Affection  which  can  never  fade; 
Dear,  faithful  beasts  who  went  before, — 
I'll   find    them   on   the    further   shore! 

Rowland  Thir Inter e 


VILLANELLE  OF  CITY  AND  COUNTRY 

Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

And  watch  the  Lovers  wander — Song  and  Spring- 
But  oh  J  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

A  great  triangle  shaft  uplifts  on  high 

Its  columned  shrine  wherein  the  presses  sing; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

With  flocks  of  clouds  the  Shepherd-wind  goes  by. 
White  poppies  'mid  the  waving  grasses  swing — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

As  to  a  fairy  castle  we  draw  nigh 

When  home  the  ferries  bear  us,  marvelling; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

Across  the  empty  fields  the  trumpets  die 

That  meadow  larks  unto  the  morning  fling — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

Far  off  I  hear  the  city's  aching  cry, 

Where  Life  and  Death  are  Lovers,  wandering; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

Zoe  Akhts 


440  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

LUGUBRIOUS  VILLANELLE  OF  PLATITUDES 
Eheu  fugaces,  Postume. — Horace.     Book  II:  Ode   14 

Ah,  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by; 

Old  age  with  hurrying  footsteps  draws  nearer  day  by  day; 
And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friendlier 
tie. 

Soon  Death,  whose  strength   is  never  spent,  whose  sword  is 
always  high. 
Will  beckon  us,  and  all  our  faith  will  win  us  no  delay. 
Ah,  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by. 

Grim  Pluto  waits  for  all  of  us;  he  waits  with  pitiless  eye, 
Until  we  journey  down  the  stream  that  carries  us  away; 
And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friendlier 
tie. 

Though  we  be  kings  or  worse  than  slaves,  the  eager  moments 

fly; 
Though  we  be  purer  than  the  gods.  Time  will  not  halt  or 

stay — 
Ah,  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by. 

Aye,  we  must  go,  though  we  have  shunned  the  red  sun  of 

July, 

The  bitter  winds,  the  treacherous  surf,  the  blind  and  sav- 
age fray, 
And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friendlier 
tie. 

Too  soon   the   stubborn   hand  of  Fate   tears   all   our   dreams 
awry; 
Too  soon  the  plowman  quits  his  plow,  the  child  his  happy 
play— 
A^,  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  sliffing  by. 
And  zve  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friendlier 
tie. 

Louis  Untermeyer 


VILLANELLES  441 


VILLANELLE,  WITH   STEVENSON'S  ASSISTANCE 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things 

Like  music  and  pictures  and  statues  and  plays, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

We've  winters  and  summers  and  autumns  and  springs, 

We've  Aprils  and  Augusts,  Octobers  and  Mays — 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things. 

Though  minor  the  key  of  my  lyrical  strings, 
I  change  it  to  major  when  pasaning  praise: 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Each  morning  a  myriad  wonderments  brings, 

Each  evening  a  myriad  marvels  conveys, 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things. 

With  pansies  and  roses  and  pendants  and  rings, 

With  purples  and  yellows  and  scarlets  and  grays, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

So  pardon  a  bard  if  he  carelessly  sings 

A  solo  indorsing  these  Beautiful  Days — 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Franklin  P.  Adams 


SESTINAS 


SESTINA 

Fra  tutti  il  primo  Arnaldo  Daniello 
Gran  maestro  d'amor. — Petrarch. 

In  fair  Provence,  the  land  of  lute  and  rose, 
Arnaut,  great  master  of  the  lore  of  love, 
First  wrought  sestines  to  win  his  lady's  heart. 
Since  she  was  deaf  when  simpler  staves  he  sang, 
And  for  her  sake  he  broke  the  bonds  of  rhyme. 
And  in  this  subtler  measure  hid  his  woe. 

"Harsh  be  my  lines,"  cried  Arnaut,  "harsh  the  woe 
My  lady,  that  enthorn'd  and  cruel  rose. 
Inflicts  on  him  that  made  her  live  in  rhyme!" 
But  through  the  metre  spake  the  voice  of  Love, 
And  like  a  wild-wood  nightingale  he  sang 
Who  thought  in  crabbed  lays  to  ease  his  heart. 

It  is  not  told  if  her  untoward  heart 

Was  melted  by  her  poet's  lyric  woe, 

Or  if  in  vain  so  amorously  he  sang; 

Perchance  through  cloud  of  dark  conceits  he  rose 

To  nobler  heights  of  philosophic  love. 

And  crowned  his  later  years  with  sterner  rhyme. 

This  thing  alone  we  know:  the  triple  rhyme 
Of  him  who  bared  his  vast  and  passionate  heart 
To  all  the  crossing  flames  of  hate  and  love. 
Wears  in  the  midst  of  all  its  storm  of  woe, — 
As  some  loud  morn  of  March  may  bear  a  rose,  — 
The  impress  of  a  song  that  Arnaut  sang. 

445 


446  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

"Smith  of  his  mother-tongue,"  the  Frenchman  sang 
Of  Lancelot  and  of  Galahad,  the  rhyme 
That  beat  so  bloodlike  at  its  core  of  rose, 
It  stirred  the  sweet  Francesca's  gentle  heart 
To  take  that  kiss  that  brought  her  so  much  woe 
And  sealed  in  fire  her  martyrdom  of  love. 

And  Dante,  full  of  her  immortal  love. 

Stayed  his  drear  song,  and  softly,  fondly  sang 

As  though  his  voice  broke  with  that  weight  of  woe; 

And  to  this  day  we  think  of  Arnaut's  rhyme 

Whenever  pity  at  the  labouring  heart 

On  fair  Francesca's  memory  drops  the  rose. 

Ah!  sovereign  Love,  forgive  this  weaker  rhyme! 
The  men  of  old  who  sang  were  great  at  heart. 
Yet  have  we  too  known  woe,  and  worn  thy  rose. 

Edmund  Gosse 


THE  CONQUEROR  PASSES 

"Non   dormatz  plus!    les  messatges  de  douz  pascor^' 

— Ra'imbaut  de   Vaquelras. 

Awaken!   for  the  servitors  of  Spring 
Proclain.  his  triumph!  oh,  make  haste  to  see 
With  what  tempestuous  pageantry  they  bring 
The  victor  homeward!  haste,  for  this  is  he 
That  cast  out  Winter,  and  all  woes  that  cling 
To  Winter's  garments,  and  bade  April  be! 

And  now  that  Spring  is  master,  let  us  be 
Content,  and  laugh   as  anciently  in  spring 
The  battle-wearied  Tristan  laughed,  when  he 
Was  come   again   Tintagel-ward,  to  bring 
Glad  news  of  Arthur's  victory — and  see 
Ysoude,  with  parted  lips  that  waver  and  cling. 


SESTINAS  447 

Not  yet  in  Brittany  must  Tristan  cling 
To  this  or  that  sad  memory,  and  be 
Alone,  as  she  in  Cornwall;  for  in  spring 
Love  sows  against  far  harvestings, — and  he 
Is  blind,  and  scatters  baleful  seed  that  bring 
Such  fruitage  as  blind  Love  lacks  eyes  to  see. 

Love  sows,  but  lovers  reap;  and  ye  will  see 
The  loved  eyes  lighten,  feel  the  loved  lips  cling, 
Never  again  when  in  the  grave  ye  be 
Incurious  of  your  happiness  in  spring. 
And  get  no  grace  of  Love  there,  whither  he 
That  bartered  life  for  love  no  love  may  bring. 

No  braggart  Heracles  avails  to  bring 
Alcestis  hence;  nor  here  may  Roland  see 
The  eyes  of  Aude;  nor  here  the  wakening  spring 
Vex  any  man  with  memories;  for  there  be 
No  memories  that  cling  as  cerements  cling. 
No  force  that  baffles  Death,  more  strong  than  he. 

Us  hath  he  noted,  and  for  us  hath  he 
An  hour  appointed;  and  that  hour  will  bring 
Oblivion. — Then  laugh!     Laugh,  dear,  and  see 
The  tyrant  mocked,  while  yet  our  bosoms  cling, 
While  yet  our  lips  obey  us,  and  we  be 
Untrammeled  in  our  little  hour  of  spring! 

Thus  in  the  spring  we  jeer  at  Death,  though  he 
Will  see  our  children  perish,  and  will  bring 
Asunder  all  that  cling  while  love  may  be. 

James  Branch  Cabell 

RIZZIO'S  LOVE-SONG 

Love  with  shut  wings,  a  little  ungrown  love, 
A  blind  lost  love,  alit  on  my  shut  heart. 
As  on  an  unblown  rose  an  unfledged  dove; 
Feeble  the  flight  as  yet,  feeble  the  flower. 
And  I  said,  show  me  if  sleep  or  love  thou  art. 
Or  death  or  sorrow  or  some  obscurer  power; 


448  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Show  me  thyself,  if  thou  be  some  such  power, 
If  thou  be  god  or  spirit,  sorrow  or  lov^e, 
That  I  may  praise  thee  for  the  thing  thou  art. 
And  saying,  I  felt  my  soul  a  sudden  flower 
Full-fledged  of  petals,  and  thereon  a  dove 
Sitting  full-feathered,  singing  at  my  heart. 

Yet  the  song's  burden  heavier  on  my  heart 
Than  a  man's  burden  laid  on  a  child's  power. 
Surely  most  bitter  of  all  sweet  things  thou  art, 
And  sweetest  thou  of  all  things  bitter,  lovej 
And  if  a  poppy  or  if  a  rose  thy  flower 
We  know  not,  nor  if  thou  be  kite  or  dove. 

But  nightingale  is  none  nor  any  dove 

That  sings  so  long  nor  is  so  hot  of  heart 

For  love  of  sorrow  or  sorrow  of  any  love; 

Nor  all  thy  pain  hath  any  or  all  thy  power. 

Nor  any  knows  thee  if  bird  or  god  thou  art, 

Or  whether  a  thorn  to  think  thee  or  whether  a  flower. 

But  surely  will  I  hold  thee  a  glorious  flower. 
And  thy  tongue  surely  sweeter  than  the  dove 
Muttering  in  mid  leaves  from  a  fervent  heart 
Something  divine  of  some  exceeding  love, 
If  thou  being  god  out  of  a  great  god's  power 
Wilt  make  me  also  the  glad  thing  thou  art. 

Will  no  man's  mercy  show  me  where  thou  art. 
That  I  may  bring  thee  of  all  my  fruit  and  flower, 
That  with  loud  lips  and  with  a  molten  heart 
I  may  sing  all  thy  praises,  till  the  dove 
That  I  desire  to  have  within  my  power 
Fly  at  thy  bidding  to  my  bosom,  love? 

Clothed  as  with  power  of  pinions,  O  my  heart, 
Fly  like  a  dove,  and  seek  one  sovereign  flower. 
Whose  thrall  thou  art,  and  sing  for  love  of  love. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


SESTINAS  449 

THE  COMPLAINT  OF  LISA 

(Double  Sestina) 

Decameron,  x.  7 

There  is  no  womaii  living  that  draws  breath 
So  sad  as  I,  though  all  things  sadden  her. 
There  is  not  one  upon  life's  weariest  way 
Who  is  weary  as  I  am  weary  of  all  but  death. 
Toward  whom  I  look  as  looks  the  sunflower 
All  day  with  his  whole  soul  toward  the  sun; 
While  in  the  sun's  sight  I  make"  moan  all  day. 
And  all  night  on  my  sleepless  maiden  bed 
Weep  and  call  out  on  death,  O  Love,  and  thee, 
That  thou  or  he  would  take  me  to  the  dead. 
And  know  not  what  thing  evil  I  have  done 
That  life  should  lay  such  heavy  hand  on  me. 

Alas,  Love,  what  is  this  thou  wouldst  with  me? 
What  honor  shalt  thou  have  to  quench  my  breath, 
Or  what  shall  my  heart  broken  profit  thee? 

0  Love,  O  great  god  Love,  what  have  I  done. 
That  thou  shouldst  hunger  so  after  my  death? 
My  heart  is  harmless  as  my  life's  first  day: 
Seek  out  some  false  fair  woman,  and  plague  her 
Till  her  tears  even  as  my  tears  fill  her  bed: 

1  am  the  least  flower  in  thy  flowery  way. 
But  till  my  time  be  come  that  I  be  dead 
Let  me  live  out  my  flower-time  in  the  sun 
Though  my  leaves  shut  before  the  sunflower. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love,  the  kingly  sunflower! 
Shall  he  the  sun  hath  looked  on  look  on  me. 
That  live  down  here  in  shade,  out  of  the  sun. 
Here  living  in  the  sorrow  and  shadow  of  death? 
Shall  he  that  feeds  his  heart  full  of  the  day 
Care  to  give  mine  eyes  light,  or  my  lips  breath? 
Because  she  loves  him  shall  my  lord  love  her 
Who  is  as  a  worm  in  my  lord's  kingly  way? 


450  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

I  shall  not  see  him  or  know  him  alive  or  dead; 
But  thou,  I  know  thee,  O  Love,  and  pray  to  thee 
That  in  brief  while  my  brief  life-days  be  done, 
And  the  worm  quickly  make  my  marriage-bed. 

For  underground  there  is  no  sleepless  bed: 

But  here  since  I  beheld  my  sunflower 

These  eyes  have  slept  not,  seeing  all  night  and  day 

His  sunlike  eyes,  and  face  fronting  the  sun. 

Wherefore  if  anywhere  be  any  death, 

I  would  fain  find  and  fold  him  fast  to  me, 

That  I  may  sleep  with  the  world's  eldest  dead. 

With  her  that  died  seven  centuries  since,  and  her 

That  went  last  night  down  the  night-wandering  way. 

For  this  is  sleep  indeed,  when  labor  is  done. 

Without  love,  without  dreams,  and  without  breath, 

And  without  thought,  O  name  unnamed!  of  thee. 

Ah,  but,  forgetting  all  things,  shall  I  thee? 
Wilt  thou  not  be  as  now  about  my  bed. 
There  underground  as  here  before  the  sun? 
Shall  not  thy  vision  vex  me  alive  and  dead. 
Thy  moving  vision  without  form  or  breath? 
I  read  long  since  the  bitter  tale  of  her 
Who  read  the  tale  of  Launcelot  on  a  day. 
And  died,  and  had  no  quiet  after  death. 
But  was  moved  ever  along  a  weary  way. 
Lost  with  her  love  in  the  underworld;  ah  me, 
O  my  king,  O  my  lordly  sunflower. 
Would  God  to  me  too  such  a  thing  were  done! 

But  if  such  sweet  and  bitter  things  be  done, 

Then,  flying  from  life,  I  shall  not  fly  from  thee. 

For  in  that  living  world  without  a  sun 

Thy  vision  will  lay  hold  upon  me  dead. 

And  meet  and  mock  me,  and  mar  my  peace  in  death. 

Yet  if  being  wroth  God  had  such  pity  on  her, 

Who  was  a  sinner  and  foolish  in  her  day. 

That  even  in  hell  they  twain  should  breathe  one  breath, 

Why  should  he  not  in  some  wise  pity  me? 


S  EST  IN  AS  451 

So  if  1  sleep  not  in  my  soft  strait  bed 

I  may  look  up  and  see  my  sunflower 

As  he  the  sun,  in  some  divine  strange  way. 

0  poor  my  heart,  well  knowest  thou  in  what  way 
This  sore  sweet  evil  unto  us  was  done. 

For  on  a  holy  and  a  heavy  day 

1  was  risen  out  of  my  still  small  bed 

To  see  the  knights  tilt,  and  one  said  to  me 

'The  king,'  and  seeing  him,  somewhat  stopped  my  breath, 

And  if  the  girl  spake  more,  1  heard  not  her, 

For  only  I  saw  what  I  shall  see  when  dead, 

A  kingly  flower  of  knights,  a  sunflower, 

That  shown  against  the  sunlight  like  the  sun, 

And  like  a  fire,  O  heart,  consuming  thee. 

The  fire  of  love  that  lights  the  pyre  of  death. 

Howbeit  I  shall  not  die  an  evil  death 
Who  have  loved  in  such  a  sad  and  sinless  way, 
That  this  my  love,  lord,  was  no  shame  to  thee. 
So  when  mine  eyes  are  shut  against  the  sun, 
O  my  soul's  sun,  O  the  world's  sunflower, 
Thou  nor  no  man  will  quite  despise  me  dead. 
And  dying  I  pray  with  all  my  low  last  breath 
That  thy  whole  life  may  be  as  was  that  day. 
That  feast-day  that  made  troth-plight  death  and  me, 
Giving  the  world  light  of  thy  great  deeds  done; 
And  that   fair  face  brightening  thy  bridal  bed, 
That  God  be  good  as  God  hath  been  to  her. 


That  all  things  goodly  and  glad  remain  with  her. 
All  things  that  make  glad  life  and  goodly  death; 
That  as  a  bee  sucks  from  a  sunflower 
Honey,  when  summer  draws  delighted  breath. 
Her  soul  may  drink  of  thy  soul  in  like  way, 
And  love  make  life  a  fruitful  marriage-bed 
Where  day  may  bring  forth  fruits  of  joy  to  day 
And  night  to  night  till  days  and  nights  be  dead. 


452  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

And  as  she  gives  light  of  her  love  to  thee, 
Give  thou  to  her  the  old  glory  of  days  long  done; 
And  either  give  some  heat  of  light  to  me, 
To  warm  me  where  1  sleep  without  the  sun. 

O  sunflower  made  drunken  with  the  sun, 
O  knight  whose  lady's  heart  draws  thine  to  her, 
Great  king,  glad  lover,  1  have  a  word  to  thee. 
There  is  a  weed  lives  out  of  the  sun's  way. 
Hid  from  the  heat  deep  in  the  meadow's  bed. 
That  swoons  and  whitens  at  the  wind's  least  breath, 
A  flower  star-shaped,  that  all  a  summer  day 
Will  gaze  her  soul  out  on  the  sunflower 
For  very  love  till  twilight  finds  her  dead. 
But  the  great  sunflower  heeds  not  her  poor  death, 
Knows  not  when  all  her  loving  life  is  done; 
And  so  much  knows  my  lord  the  king  of  me. 

Aye,  all  day  long  he  has  no  eye  for  me; 
With  golden  eye  following  the  golden  sun 
From  rose-colored  to  purple-pillowed  bed. 
From  birthplace  to  the  flame-lit  place  of  death. 
From  eastern  end  to  western  of  his  way. 
So  mine  eye  follows  thee,  my  sunflower. 
So  the  white  star-flower  turns  and  yearns  to  thee. 
The  sick  weak  weed,  not  well  alive  or  dead. 
Trod  underfoot   if  any  pass  by  her. 
Pale,  without  color  of  summer  or  summer  breath 
In  the  shrunk  shuddering  petals,  that  have  done 
No  work  but  love,  and  die  before  the  day. 

But  thou,  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  every  day. 
Be  glad  and  great,  O  love  whose  love  slays  me. 
Thy  fervent  flower  made  fruitful  from  the  sun 
Shall  drop  its  golden  seed  in  the  world's  way, 
That  all  men  thereof  nourished  shall  praise  thee 
For  grain  and  flower  and  fruit  of  works  well  done; 
Till  thy  shed  seed,  O  shining  sunflower. 
Bring  forth  such  growth  of  the  world's  garden-bed 


SESTINAS  45  3 

As  like  the  sun  shall  outlive  age  and  death, 
And  yet  I  would  thine  heart  had  heed  of  her 
Who  loves  thee  alive;  but  not  till  she  be  dead. 
Come,  Love,  then,  quickly,  and  take  her  utmost  breath. 

Song,  speak  for  me  who  am  dumb  as  are  the  dead; 
From  my  sad  bed  of  tears  I  send  forth  thee. 
To  fly  all  day  from  sun's  birth  to  sun's  death 
Down  the  sun's  way  after  the  flying  sun. 
For  love  of  her  that  gave  thee  wings  and  breath 
Ere  day  be  done,  to  seek  the  sunflower. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

SESTINA 

I  saw  my  soul  at  rest  upon  a  day 

As  the  bird  sleeping  in  the  nest  of  night, 

Among  soft  leaves  that  give  the  starlight  way 
To  touch  its  wings  but  not  its  eyes  with  light; 

So  that  it  knew  as  one  in  visions  may. 
And  knew  not  as  men  waking,  of  delight. 

This  was  the  measure  of  my  soul's  delight; 

It  had  no  power  of  joy  to  fly  by  day, 
Nor  part  in  the  large  lordship  of  the  light; 

But  in  a  secret  moon-beholden  way 
Had  all  its  will  of  dreams  and  pleasant  night, 

And  all  the  love  and  life  that  sleepers  may. 

But  such  life's  triumph  as  men  waking  may 
It  might  not  have  to  feed  its  faint  delight 

Between  the  stars  by  night  and  sun  by  day 
Shut  up  with  green  leaves  and  a  little  light; 

Because  its  way  was  as  a  lost  star's  way. 

A  world's  not  wholly  known  of  day  or  night. 

All  loves  and  dreams  and  sounds  and  gleams  of  night 
Made  it  all  music  that  such  minstrels  may. 

And  all  they  had  they  gave  it  of  delight; 
But  in  the  full  face  of  the  fire  of  day 


454  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

What  place  shall  be  for  any  starry  light, 

What  part  of  heaven  in  all  the  wide  sun's  way? 

Yet  the  soul  woke  not,  sleeping  by  the  way. 

Watched  as  a  nursling  of  the  large-eyed  night, 

And  sought  no  strength  nor  knowledge  of  the  day, 
Nor  closer  touch  conclusive  of  delight, 

Nor  mightier  joy  nor  truer  than  dreamers  may. 
Nor  more  of  song  than  they,  nor  more  of  light. 

For  who  sleeps  once  and  sees  the  secret  light 
Whereby  sleep  shows  the  soul  a  fairer  way 

Between  the  rise  and  rest  of  day  and  night. 
Shall  care  no  more  to  fare  as  all  men  may. 

But  be  his  place  of  pain  or  of  delight. 

There  shall  he  dwell,  beholding  night  as  day. 

Song,  have  thy  day  and  take  thy  fill  of  light 
Before  the  night  be  fallen  across  thy  way; 
Sing  while  he  may,  man  hath  no  long  delight. 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

(A  Sestina) 

Along  the  crowded  streets  I  walk  and  think 
How  I,  a  shadow,  pace  among  the  shades, 
For  I  and  all  men  seem  to  me  unreal: 
Foam  that  the  seas  of  God  which  cover  all 
Cast  on  the  .air  a  moment,  shadows  thrown 
In  moving  westward  by  the  Moon  of  Death. 

Oh,  shall  it  set  at  last,  that  orb  of  Death? 
May  any  morning  follow?      As  I  think, 
From  one  surmise  upon  another  thrown, 
My  very  thoughts  appear  to  me  as  shades — 
Shades,  like  the  prisoning  self  that  bounds  them  all. 
Shades,  like  the  transient  world,  and  as  unreal. 


S EST  IN  AS  45  5 

But  other  hours  there  be  when  I,  unreal, 
When  only  I,  vague  in  a  conscious  Death, 
Move  through  the  mass  of  men  unseen  by  all; 
1  move  along  their  ways,  I  feel  and  think, 
Yet  am  more  light  than  echoes,  or  the  shades 
That  hide  me,  from  their  stronger  bodies  thrown. 

And  better  moments  come,  when,  overthrown 
All  round  me,  lie  the  ruins  of  the  unreal 
And  momentary  world,  as  thin  as  shades; 
When  I  alone,  triumphant  over  Death, 
Eternal,  vast,  fill  with  the  thoughts  I  think, 
And  with  my  single  soul  the  frame  of  all. 

Ah,  for  a  moment  could  I  grasp  it  all! 

Ah,  could  but  1  (poor  wrestler  often  thrown) 

Once  grapple  with  the  truth,  oh  then,  I  think, 

Assured  of  which  is  living,  which  unreal, 

1  would  not  murmur,  though  among  the  shades 

My  lot  were  cast,  among  the  shades  and  Death. 

"One  thing  is  true,"  I  said,  "and  that  is  Death," 
And  yet  it  may  be  God  disproves  it  all; 
And  Death  may  be  a  passage  from  the  shades. 
And  films  on  our  beclouded  senses  thrown; 
And  Death  may  be  a  step  beyond  the  Unreal 
Towards  the  Thought  that  answers  all  I  think. 

In  vain  I  think.      O  moon-like  thought  of  Death, 
All  is  unreal  beneath  thee,  uncertain  all. 
Dim  moon-ray  thrown  along  a  world  of  shades. 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 


CUPID  AND  THE  SHEPHERD 

(Sestina) 

One  merry  morn  when  all  the  earth  was  bright, 
And  flushed  with  dewy  dawn's  encrimsoning  ray, 


4-56  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

A  shepherd  youth,  o'er  whose  fair  face  the  light 
Of  rosy  smiles  was  ever  wont  to  stray, 

Roamed  through  a  level  grassy  mead,  bedight 

With  springtime  blossoms,  fragrant,  fresh,  and  gay. 

But  now,  alas!  his  mood  was  far  from  gay; 

And  musing  how  the  dark  world  would  be  bright 
Could  he  but  win  his  maiden's  love,  and  stray 

With  her  forever,  basking  in  its  light. 
He  saw  afar,  in  morn's  bright-beaming  ray, 

A  lissome  boy  with  archer's  arms  bedight. 

The  boy  shot  arrows  at  a  tree  bedight 

With  red-winged  songsters  warbling  sweet  and  gay 
Amid  the  leaves  and  blossoms  blooming  bright, 

He  seemed  an  aimless,  wandering  waif  astray, 
And  so  the  shepherd  caught  him,  stealing  light, 

While  from  his  eyes  he  flashed  an  angry  ray. 

The  fair  boy  plead  until  a  kindly  ray 

Shone  o'er  the  shepherd's  clouded  brow,  bedight 

With  clustering  locks,  and  he  said,  smiling  gay, 
"I  prithee  promise,  by  thy  face  so  bright. 

To  ne'er  again,  where'er  thou  mayest  stray. 

Slay  the  sweet  birds  that  make  so  glad  the  light." 

While  yet  he  spoke,  from  out  those  eyes  a  light 
Divine  shot  forth,  before  whose  glowing  ray 

The  shepherd  quailed,  it  was  so  wondrous  bright; 
Then  well  he  knew  'twas  Cupid  coy  and  gay. 

With  all  his  arts  and  subtle  wiles  bedight. 

And  knelt  in  homage  lest  the  boy  should  stray. 

"Rise,"  said  the  God,  "and  ere  thy  footsteps  stray, 
Know  that  within  her  eyes  where  beamed  no  light 

Of  love  for  thee,  I  will   implant  a  ray. 

She  shall  be  thine  with  all  her  charms  bedight." 

The  shepherd  kissed  Love's  hand,  then  bounded  gay 
To  gain  his  bliss, — and  all  the  world  was  bright. 


SESTINAS  457 

When  naught  is  bright  to  those  that  sadly  stray, 

Ofttimes  a  single  ray  of  Eros'  light 
Will  make  all  earth  bedight  with  radiance  gay. 

Clinton  Scollard 


SESTINA  OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

My  father  died  when  I  was  all  too  young, 
And  he  too  old,  too  crowded  with  his  care. 
For  me  to  know  he  knew  my  hot  fierce  hopes; 
Youth  sees  wide  chasms  between  itself  and  Age — 
How  could  I  think  he,  too,  had  lived  my  life? 
My  dreams  were  all  of  war,  and  his  of  rest. 

And  so  he  sleeps  (please  God),  at  last  at  rest, 
And,  it  may  be,  with  soul  refreshed,  more  young 
Than  when  he  left  me,  for  that  other  life — 
Free,  for  a  while,  at  least,  from  that  old  Care, 
The  hard,  relentless  torturer  of  his  age, 
That  cooled  his  youth,  and  bridled  all  his  hopes. 

For  now  I  know  he  had  the  longing  hopes. 

The  wild  desires  of  youth,  and  all  the  rest . 

Of  my  ambitions  ere  he  came  to  age; 

He,  too,  was  bold,  when  he  was  free  and  young — 

Had  I  but  known  that  he  could  feel,  and  care! 

How  could  I  know  the  secret  of  his  life? 

In  my  own  youth  I  see  his  early  life 

So  reckless,  and  so  full  of  flaming  hopes — 

I   see  him   jubilant,   without   a   care. 

The  days  too  short,  and  grudging  time  for  rest; 

He  knew  the  wild  delight  of  being  young — 

Shall  I,  too,  know  the  calmer  joys  of  age? 

His  words  come  back,  to  mind  me  of  that  age 
When,  lovingly,  he  watched  my  broadening  life — 
And,  dreaming  of  the  days  when  he  was  young. 
Smiled  at  my  joys,  and  shared  my  fears  and  hopes. 


458  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

His  words  still  live,  for  in  my  heart  they  rest, 
Too  few  not  to  be  kept  with  jealous  care! 

Ah,  little  did  I  know  how  he  could  care! 
That,  in  my  youth,  lay  joys  to  comfort  age! 
Not  in  this  world,  for  him,  was  granted  rest, 
But  as  he  lived,  in  me,  a  happier  life. 
He  prayed  more  earnestly  to  win  my  hopes 
Than  ever  for  his  own,  when  he  was  young! 

ENVOY 

He  once  was  young;  I  too  must  fight  with  Care; 
He  knew  my  hopes,  and  I  must  share  his  age; 
God  grant  my  life  be  worthy,  too,  of  rest! 

Gelett  Burgess 


SESTINA  OF  THE  TRAMP-ROYAL 

Speakin'  in  general,  I  'ave  tried  'em  all, 
The  'appy  roads  that  take  you  o'er  the  world. 
Speakin'  in  general,  I  'ave  found  them  good 
For  such  as  cannot  use  one  bed  too  long, 
But  must  get  'ence,  the  same  as  I  'ave  done, 
An'  go  observin'  matters  till   they  die. 

What  do  it  matter  where  or  'ow  we  die. 

So  long  as  we've  our  'ealth  to  watch  it  all — 

The  different  ways  that  different  things  are  done, 

An'  men  an'  women  lovin'  in  this  world — 

Takin'  our  chances  as  they  come  along. 

An'  when  they  ain't,  pretendin'  they  are  good? 

In  cash  or  credit — no,  it  ain't  no  good; 
You  'ave  to  'ave  the  'abit  or  you'd  die, 
Unless  you  lived  your  life  but  one  day  long, 
Nor  didn't  prophesy  nor  fret  at  all, 
But  drew  your  tucker  some'ow  from  the  world, 
An'  never  bothered  what  you  might  ha'  done. 


SESTINAS  459 

But,  Gawd,  what  things  are  they  I  'aven't  done? 
I've  turned  my  'and  to  most,  an'  turned  it  good. 
In  various  situations  round  the  world — 
For  'im  that  doth  not  work  must  surely  die; 
But  that's  no  reason  man  should  labour  all 
'Is  life  on  one  same  shift;  life's  none  so  long. 

Therefore,  from  job  to  job  I've  moved  along. 

Pay  couldn't  'old  me  when  my  time  was  done, 

For  something  in  my  'ead  upset  me  all. 

Till  I  'ad  dropped  whatever  'twas  for  good. 

An',  out  at  sea,  be'eld  the  dock-lights  die, 

An'  met  my  mate — the  wind  that  tramps  the  world. 

It's  like  a  book,  I  think,  this  bloomin'  world, 
Which  you  can  read  and  care  for  just  so  long. 
But  presently  you   feel  that  you  will   die 
Unless  you  get  the  page  you're  readin'  done, 
An'  turn  another — likely  not  so  good; 
But  what  you're  after  is  to  turn  'em  all. 

Gawd  bless  this  world!     Whatever  she  'ath  done — 
Excep'  when  awful  long — I've  found  it  good. 
So  write,  before  I  die,  "  'E  liked  it  all!" 

Rudyard  Killing 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES 


A  BALLADE  OF  BALLADE-MONGERS 

(After  the  manner  of  Master  Frangois  Villon  of  Paris) 

In   Ballades  things  always  contrive  to  get  lost, 

And  Echo  is  constantly  asking  where 
Are  last  year's  roses  and  last  year's  frost? 

And  where  are  the  fashions  we  used  to  wear? 
And  what  is  a  "gentleman,"  and  what  is  a  "player"? 

Irrelevant  questions  I  like  to  ask: 
Can  you  reap  the  tret  as  well  as  the  tare? 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask? 

What  has  become  of  the  ring  I  tossed 

In  the  lap  of  my  .nistress  false  and  fair? 
Her  grave  is  green  and  her  tombstone  mossed; 

But  who  is  to  be  the  next  Lord  Mayor? 
And  where  is  King  William,  of  Leicester  Square? 

And  who  has  emptied  my  hunting  flask? 
And  who  is  possessed  of  Stella's  hair? 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask? 

And  what  became  of  the  knee  I  crossed, 

And  the  rod,  and  the  child  they  would  not  spare? 
And  what  will  a  dozen  herring  cost 

When  herring  are  sold  at  three  halfpence  a  pair? 
And  what  in  the  world  is  the  Golden  Stair? 

Did  Diogenes  die  in  a  tub  or  cask, 
Like  Clarence,  for  love  of  liquor  there? 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask? 

ENVOY 

Poets,  your  readers  have  much  to  bear, 

For  Ballade-making  is  no  great  task, 
If  you  do  not  remember,  I  don't  much  care 
Who  was  the  man  in  the  Iron  Mask. 

Augustus  M.  Moore 
463 


464  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


THE  PRODIGALS 

(Dedicatei  to  Mr.  Chaflin,  M.  P.,  and  Mr.  Richard  Potvefy 
M.  P.,  and  223  who  followed  them) 

Ministers!  you,  most  serious, 

Critics  and  statesmen  of  all  degrees, 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  motion  of  us — 

Senators  keen  for  the  Epsom  breeze! 

Nothln;^  we  ask  of  posts  or  fees; 
Worry  us  not  with  objections,  pray! 

Lo,  for  the  speaker's  wig  we  seize — 
Give  us,  ah!  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Scots  most  prudent,  penurious! 

Irishmen  busy  as  bumblebees! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  motion  of  us — 

Senators  keen  for  the  Epsom  breeze! 

For  Sir  Joseph's  sake,  and  his  owner's,  please!   ^ 
(Solomon  raced  like  fun,  they  say.) 

Lo,  for  we  beg  on  our  bended  knees — 
Give  us,  ah!  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Campbell — Asheton  be  generous! 

(But  they  voted  such  things  were  not  the  cheese.) 
Sullivan,  hear  us,  magnanimous! 

(But  Sullivan  thought  with  their  enemies.) 

And  shortly  they  got  both  of  help  and  ease, 
For  a  mad  majority  crowded  to  say 

"Debate  we've  drunk  to  the  dregs  and  lees: 
Give  us,  ah!  give  us  the  Derby  Day." 

ENVOI 

Prince,  most  just  was  the  motion  of  these, 
And  many  were  seen  by  the  dusty  way, 

Shouting  glad  to  the  Epsom  breeze 
Give  us,  ah!  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Anonymous 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  465 

AUSTIN  DOBSON 

Recites  a  Ballade  by  Way  of  Retort  * 

("Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me.") 

— W.  E.  Henley. 

"Anna"!     Insipid  and  weak  as  gruel — 

"Anna"!     As  flat  as  last  night's  beer — 
Plain  as  a  bed-post  and  stiff"  as  a  newel, 

Surely  there's  nothing  of  glamour  here! 

Names  by  the  hundred  enchant  the  ear, 
Stirring  the  heart  with  melodious  claims; 

Arrogant,  timid,  impulsive,  and  dear — 
Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 


Sally  gleams  like  a  laughing  jewel, 

Bella's   jovial,    Maud's   austere; 
Rachel's  complacent,  Lydia's  cruel, 

Laura  is  classical,  Fanny  is  queer. 

Peggy  reminds  one  of  rustic  cheer, 
Lucy  of  lilies  and  lofty  aims, 

Lola  of  fancies  that  shift  and  veer- 
Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 


Sara's  a  fire  for  all  men's  fuel, 

Mary's  a  comfort  for  all  men's  fear, 

Helen's  the  smile  that  invites  the  duel, 
Chloe's  the  breath  of  a  yesteryear, 
Margaret  somehow  invokes  the  tear, 

Lilith  the  thought  of  a  thousand  shames; 
Clara  is  cool  as  a  lake  and  clear — 

Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 


*  From  — and  Other  Poets,  by  Louis  Untermeyer.     Copyright 
1916,  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Publishers. 


466  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


ENVOY 


Hannah's  for  home  and  the  'woman's  sphere'; 

Vivian's  all  for  dances  and  games; 
Julia's  imperious,  Kate  is  sincere — 

Rose  (after  all)  is  the  Name  of  Names! 

Louis  Untermeyer 


CONTRIBUTED   BY   MR.   ANDREW   LANG 

Unhappy  is  Bo-Peep, 

Her  tears  profusely  flow, 
Because  her  precious  sheep 

Have  wandered  to  and  fro. 

Have  chosen  far  to  go. 
For  'pastures  new'  inclined, 

(See  Lycidas) — and  lo! 
Their  trils  are  still  behind! 


How  catch  them  while  asleep? 

(I  think  Gaboriau 
For  machinations  deep 

Beats  Conan  Doyle  and  Co.) 

But  none  a  hint  bestow 
Save  this,  on  how  to  find 

The  flock  she  misses  so — 
"Their  tails  are  still  behind!" 


This  simple  faith  to  keep 

Will  mitigate  her  woe, 
She  is  not  Joan,  to  leap 

To  arms  against  the  foe 

Or  conjugate  rhnru; 
Nay,  peacefully  resigned 

She  waits  till  time  shall  show 
Their  tails  are  still  behind! 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  467 

Bo-Peep,  rejoice!      Although 
Your  sheep  appear  unkind, 

Rejoice  at  least  to  know 
Their  tails  are  still  behind! 

AntAony  C.  Deane 

TRIOLET  AND  BALLADE  FROM  "THE  HEAVEN 
ABOVE  STORYSENDE" 

Then  up  spoke  the  last  and  youngest  leader  of  them,  sweep- 
ing a  viola  (Paniore  that  had  but  one  string.  His  face  was 
smooth  and  more  asexual  than  an  angel's  and  his  thick  hair 
shone  like  a  tossing  golden  flame.      Sang  this  one: 

"Goodness  and  beauty  and  truth  .  .  .  Where?  Well,  but 
only  in  song?  .  .  .  Honor,  Nobility,  Youth,  Goodness  and 
Beauty — and  Truth — shrink  from  man's  clutches.  In  sooth, 
no  man  can  hold  them  for  long.  .  .  .  Goodness  and  Beauty 
and  Truth  wear  well.      But  only  in  song!" 

"A  skeptical  though  neatly-joined  triolet,"  smiled  Ortnitz. 
"But  you  talk  in  riddles,  my  fine  young  poet,  for  all  your 
cynically  smooth  generalities.  Yet  why  should  I  desist? 
And  for  what,  more  specifically  would  you  have  me  abandon 
my  quest  for  truth,  justice  and  those  ultimates  which  are  the 
pavement  and  the  pillars  of  heaven?" 

Thus  answered  the  minstrel: 

"I  offer  you  more  than  earthly  riches  in  coin  that  none 
but  the  poet  pays: — Freedom  from  all  the  stings  and  itches 
of  every  trivial  splutter  and  blaze;  a  cup  of  healing;  a  stirrup 
of  praise;  a  mood  to  meet  the  challenge  of  pleasure;  a  lilt  to 
the  feet  of  dragging  days — all  in  the  heart  of  a  minstrel's 
measure." 

Said  Ortnitz:  "That  is  much  indeed  to  promise." 

But  the  youth  continued: 

"I  offer  you  more.  I  offer  you  riches  where  a  sour  world's 
grumbling  never  strays;  where  ripples  a  mirthful  music  which 
is  an  echo  of  man's  first  laughter  that  plays  in  various  keys 
and  secret  ways.  There  still  is  a  land  of  Light  and  Leisure 
(if  you  will  pardon  so  mouldy  a  phrase)  all  in  the  heart  of  a 
minstrel's  measure." 

Said   Ortnitz:   "A   great   deal,   to   be   sure.     At   the   same 


468  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

time — "      His  interjection  was  interrupted  by  the  poet  who 
pursued  his  rhapsody,   crying: 

"I  offer  all  that  ever  bewitches  the  mind  of  man  from 
its  yeas  and  nays.  To  the  poet,  immortal  hemistiches;  to 
the  soldier,  conquest  crowned  with  bays;  to  the  lover,  the 
breath  of  a  thousand  Mays;  to  the  boy,  a  jingle  of  buried 
treasure;  to  the  cheated  and  broken,  a  merciful  haze.  All  in 
the  heart  of  a  minstrel's  measure. 

"Master,  I  offer  what  never  decays  though  all  else  wither. 
Master,  what  says  your  will  to  the  magics  that  quicken  and 
raise  all  in  the  heart  of  a  minstrel's  measure?" 

Louis  Uniermeyer 

BALLADE  OF  INCIPIENT  LUNACY  * 

Scene. — A  Battalion  "Orderly"  Room  in  France  during  a 
period  of  "Rest."  Runners  arrive  breathlessly  from  all  direc- 
tions bearing  illegible  chits,  and  tear  off  in  the  same  directions 
with  illegible  answers  or  no  answers  at  all.  Motor-bicycles 
snort  up  to  the  door,  and  arrogant  dispatch-riders  enter  with 
enormous  envelopes  containing  leagues  of  correspondence, 
orders,  minutes,  circulars,  maps,  signals,  lists,  schedules,  sum- 
maries, and  all  sorts.  The  tables  are  stacked  with  papers; 
the  floor  is  littered  with  papers;  papers  fly  through  the  air. 
Two  typewriters  click  with  maddening  insistence  in  a  corner. 
A  signaller  "buzzes"  tenaciously  at  the  telephone,  talking  in  a 
strange  language,  apparently  to  himself,  as  he  never  seems  to 
be  connected  with  anyone  else.  A  stream  of  miscellaneous 
persons — quartermasters,  chaplains,  generals,  batmen,  D.  A.  D. 
O.  S.'s,  sergeant-majors,  staff  officers,  buglers,  Maires,  officers 
just  arriving,  officers  just  going  away,  gas  experts,  bombing 
experts,  interpreters,  doctors — drifts  in,  wastes  time,  and 
drifts  out  again. 

Clerks  scribble  ceaselessly,  rolls  and  nominal  rolls,  nominal 
lists  and  lists.  By  the  time  they  have  finished  one  list  it  is 
long  out  of  date.  Then  they  start  the  next.  Everything 
happens  at  the  same  time;  nobody  has  time  to  finish  a  sen- 
tence.     Only  a  military  mind  with  a  very  limited  descriptive 

*  From  The  Bomber  Gipsy,  by  A.  P,  Herbert.  Copyright 
1920  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Publisher. 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  469 

vocabulary  and  a  chronic  habit  of  self-deception,  would  call 
the  place  orderly. 

The  Adjutant  speaks  hoarsely;  while  he  speaks  he  writes, 
about  something  quite  different.  In  the  middle  of  each 
sentence  his  pipe  goes  out;  at  the  end  of  each  sentence  he 
lights  a  match.  He  may  or  may  not  light  his  pipe;  anyhow 
he  speaks: — 

"Where  is  that  list  of  Weslyans  I  made? 

And  what  are  all  those  people  on  the  stair? 
Is  that  my  pencil?      Well,  they  can'i  be  paid. 

Tell  the  Marines  we  have  no  forms  to  spare. 

I  cannot  get  these  Ration  States  to  square. 
The  Brigadier  is  coming  round,  they  say. 

The  Colonel  wants  a  man  to  cut  his  hair. 
I  think  I  musi  be  going  mad  to-day. 

"These  silly  questions!      I  shall  tell  Brigade 

This  office  is  now  closing  for  repair. 
They  want  to  know  what  Mr.  Johnstone  weighed. 

And  if  the  Armourer  is  dark  or  fair? 

I  do  not  know;  I  cannot  say  I  care. 
Tell  that  interpreter  to  go  away. 

Where  is  my  signal  pad?      I  left  it  there. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day. 

"Perhaps  I  should  appear  upon  parade. 

Where  is  my  pencil?      Ring  up  Captain  Aire. 
Say  I  regret  our  tools  have  been  mislaid. 

These  companies  would  make  Sir  Douglas  swear. 

'A'  is  the  worst.     Oh,  damn,  is  this  the  Maire? 
I'm  sorry,  Monsieur — je  suis  desole — 

But  no  one's  pinched  your  miserable  chair. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day. 

ENVOI 

"Prince,  I  perceive  what  Cain's  temptations  were. 
And  how  attractive  it  must  be  to  slay. 
O  Lord,  the  General!     This  is  hard  to  bear. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day." 

A.  P.  Herbert 


470  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


BALLADE  OF  DOTTINESS 

A  cow,  delighted,  blew  her  horn. 

The  pines  stopped  pining  and  were  gay, 
The  weeping  willows  ceased  to  mourn, 

A  donkey,   thrilled,  began  to  bray. 

The  sun  released  a  brilliant  ray. 
The   birds  pronounced   a  benediction. 

As  John  and  Helen  kissed  that  day — 
Oh,  for  an  end  of  dotty  fiction! 

You  laugh  my  parody  to  scorn? 

That   I   exaggerate,  you   say? 
Well,  read  "The  Rose  Without  a  Thorn" 

And  you'll  accept  my  roundelay, 

Especially  when  in  dismay 
Spurned  Julius  cries  his  sore  affliction, 

"Men  are  but  things  with  which  you  play!"- 
Oh,  for  an  end  of  dotty  fiction! 

Dear  Novelists,  since  I  was  born 

I've  watched  the  fictional  decay, 
And  resolutely   I   have  sworn 

A  fictionist  or  two  to  slay. 

Ye  second  raters,  run  away 
Before  you  feel  a  tight  constriction 

About  your  gizzards!      (Kneel  and  pray!) 
Oh,  for  an  end  of  dotty  fiction! 


l'envoi 


How  can  the  publishers  defray 
The  punctuation  bills?    ,   .   .  "Conviction 

Faced  Doyle.  .   .  .  He  wept.  ...  I  saw  him 
sway.   .   .   ." 
Oh,  for  an  end  of  dotty  fiction! 

Edward  Anthony 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  471 


THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  SUMMER-BOARDER 

Let  all  men  living  on  earth  take  heed, 

For  their  own  souls'  sake,  to  a  rhyme  well  meant; 
Writ  so  that  he  who  runs  may  read — 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summermg  zvent. 

Who  while  ti.e  year  was  young  were  bent — 
Yea,  bent  on  doing  this  self-same  thing 

Which  we  have  done  unto  some  extent. 
This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

We  are  the  folk  who  would  fain  be  freed 

From  wasteful  burdens  of  rate  and  rent — 
From  the  vampire  agents'  ravening  breed — 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went. 

We  hied  us  forth  when  the  summer  was  blent 
With  the  fresh  faint  sweetness  of  dying  spring, 

A-seeking  the  meadows  dew-besprent 
This  is  the  e7id  of  our  summering. 

For  O  the  waiters  that  must  be  fee'd, 

And  our  meat-time  neighbour,  the  travelling 

"gent;" 
And  the  youth  next  door  with  the  ophicleide! 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  zvent! 

Who  from  small  bare  rooms  wherein  we  were  pent, 
While  birds  their  way  to  the  southward  wing. 

Come  back,  our  money  for  no  good  spent — 
This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 


ENVOY 

Citizens!   list  to  our  sore  lament — 

While  the  landlord's  hands  to  our  raiment  cling — 
We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  zvent: 

This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

H .  C.  Bunner 


472  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

ON  NEWPORT  BEACH 

(Rondeau) 

On  Newport  beach  there  ran  right  merrily, 
In  dainty  navy  blue  clothed  to  the  knee, 
Thence  to  the  foot  in  white  au  naturel, 
A  little  maid.      Fair  was  she,  truth  to  tell, 
As  Oceanus'  child  Callirrhoe. 
In  the  soft  sand  lay  one  small  shell,  its  wee 
Keen  scallops  tinct  with  faint  hues,  such  as  be 
In  girlish  cheeks.      In  some  old  storm  it  fell 
On  Newport  Beach. 

There  was  a  bather  of  the  species  he. 
Who  saw  the  little  maid  go  toward  the  sea; 

Rushing  to  help  her  through  the  billowy  swell. 
He  set  his  sole  upon  the  little  shell. 
And  heaped  profanely  phrased  obloquy 

On  Newport  Beach. 

H.  C.  Bunner 

CULTURE  IN  THE  SLUMS 
(Inscribed  to  an  Intense  Poet) 

I.     RONDEAU 

"O  crikey,  Bill!"  she  ses  to  me,  she  scs. 

"Look  sharp,"  ses  she,  "with  them  there  sossiges. 
Yea!  sharp  with  them  there  bags  of  mysteree! 
For  lo!"  she  ses,  "for  lo!  old  pal,"  ses  she, 

"I'm  blooming  peckish,  neither  more  nor  less." 

Was  it  not  prime — I  leave  you  all  to  guess 
How  prime! — to  have  a  jude  in  love's  distress 
Come  spooning  round,  and  murmuring  balmilee, 

"O  crikey.   Bill!" 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  473 

For  in  such  rorty  wise  doth  Love  express 
His  blooming  views,  and  asks  for  your  address, 
And  makes  it  right,  and  does  the  gay  and  free 
I  kissed  her — I  did  so!      And  her  and  me 
Was  pals.     And  if  that  ain't  good  business, 

O  crikey.  Bill! 

II.     VILLANELLE 

Now  ain't  they  utterly  too-too 

(She  ses,  my  Missus  mine,*  ses  she), 
Them  flymy  little  bits  of  Blue. 

Joe,  just  you  kool  'em — nice  and  skew 

Upon  our  old  meogginee, 
Now  ain't  they  utterly  too-too? 

They're  better  than  a  pot'n'  a  screw, 

They're  equal  to  a  Sunday  spree, 
Them  flymy  little  bits  of  Blue! 

Suppose  I  put  'em  up  the  flue, 

And  booze  the  profits,  Joe?      Not  me. 
Now  ain't  they  utterly  too-too? 

I  do  the  'Igh  Art  fake,  I  do. 

Joe,  I'm  consummate;  and  I  see 
Them  flymy  little  bits  of  Blue. 

Which,  Joe,  is  why  I  ses  te  you — 

Esthetic-like,  and  limp,  and  free — 
Now  ain't  they  utterly  too-too. 
Them  flymy  little  bits  of  Blue? 

III.     BALLADE 

I  often  does  a  quiet  read 
At  Booty  Shelly's  t  poetry; 

*  An  adaptation  of  "Madonna  mia." 
t  Probably  Botticelli. 


474  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

I  thinks  that  Swinburne  at  a  screec. 

Is  really  almost  too-too  fly; 

At  Signer  Vagna's  *  harmony 
I  likes  a  merry  little  flutter; 

I've  had  at  Pater  many  a  shy; 
In  fact,  my  form's  the  Bloomin'  Utter. 

My  mark's  a  tidy  little  feed, 

And  'Enry  Irving's  gallery, 
To  see  old  'Amlick  do  a  bleed, 

And  Ellen  Terry  on  the  die. 

Or  Franky's  ghostes  at  hi-spy,"!" 
And  parties  carried  on  a  shutter,^ 

Them  vulgar  Coupeaus  is  my  eye! 
In  fact,  my  form's  the  Bleomin'  Utter. 

The  Grosvenor's  nuts — it  is,  indeed! 

I  goes  for  'Olman  'Unt  like  pie. 
It's  equal  to  a  friendly  lead 

To  see  B.  Jones's  judes  go  by. 

Stanhope  he  makes  me  fit  to  cry. 
Whistler  he  makes  me  melt  like  butter. 

Strudwick  he  makes  me  flash  my  cly — 
In  fact,  my  form's  the  Bloomin'  Utter. 

j:nvoy 

I'm  on  for  any  Art  that's  'Igh; 
I  talks  as  quite  as  I  can  splutter; 

I  keeps  a  Dado  on  the  sly; 
In  fact,  my  form's  the  Bloomin'  Utter! 

W.  E.  Henley 

*  Wagner(?). 

t  This  seems  to  be  a  reference  to  The  Corsican  Brothers. 

X  Richard  III.O). 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  475 

VILLON'S  STRAIGHT  TIP  TO  ALL  CROSS 

COVES 

"Tout  aux  tavernes  et  aux  filles." 

Suppose  you  screeve?  or  go  cheap-jack? 

Or  fake  tiie  broads?   or  fig  a  nag? 
Or  thimble-rig?    or  knap  a  yack? 

Or  pitch  a  snide?  or  smash  a  rag? 

Suppose  you  duff?  or  nose  and  lag? 
Or  get  the  straight,  and  land  your  pot? 

How  do  you  melt  the  multy  swag? 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

Fiddle,  or  fence,  or  mace,  or  mack; 

Or  moskeneer,  or  flash  the  drag; 
Dead-lurk  a  crib,  or  do  a  crack; 

Pad  with  a  slang,  or  chuck  a  fag; 

Bonnet,  or  tout,  or  mump  and  gag; 
Rattle  the  tats,  or  mark  the  spot; 

You  can  not  bank  a  single  stag; 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

Suppose  you  try  a  different  tack. 

And  on  the  square  you  flash  your  flag? 
At  penny-a-lining  make  your  whack, 

Or  with  the  mummers  mug  and  gag? 

For  nix,  for  nix  the  dibbs  you  bag! 
At  any  graft,  no  matter  what. 

Your  merry  goblins  soon  stravag: 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

THE    MORAL 

It's  up  the  spout  and  Charley  Wag 
With  wipes  and  tickers  and  what  not. 

Until  the  squeezer  nips  your  scrag, 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

W.  E.  Henley 


4-76  LYkIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


A  BURLESQUE  RONDO 

Cum  tu,  Lydia,   Telephi 

Cervkem  roseat?i,  cerea  Telefhi. — Horace.     Book  I:  Ode  13 

Cum   tu,   Lydia  .   .  .  You   know  the   rest — 
Praising  the  waxen  arms  and  breast 

Of  Telephus  you  drove  me  mad. 

You  made  the  sunniest  moments  sad, 
While  tortures  racked  my  heaving  chest. 

Oh,  I  could  see  you  softly  dressed, 
Inciting  him  with  amorous  zest; 

And  hear  you  whisper  low,  "My  lad. 
Come    to   Lydia." 

Now  you  repent  .   .   .  Your  arms  protest 
That  they  have  been  too  roughly  pressed. 
Oh,  gain  your  senses;  leave  the  cad. 
And  heed  me  as  again  I  add: 
Awake!      Love  is  no  giddy  jest. 
Come  to!    Lydia! 

Louis  Untermeyer 


A  RONDEAU  OF  REMORSE 

Unhappy,  I  observe  the  Ass, 
Who  browses  placidly  on  grass, 
Or  bits  of  wood  he  will  devour. 
While  e'en  the  prickly  thistle-flower 
Is  spicing  for  his  garden-sass. 

Last  night  that  lovely  golden  mass 
She  called  a  "rarebit"  proved  but  brass; 
And  life  I  gazed  at  through  a  sour 
Unhappy  eye! 

And  as  this  sleepless  night  I  pass 
I  learn  that  he  who  has,  alas! 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  477 

An  ass's  judgment  for  his  dower 
May  lack  the  beast's  digestive  power. 
Oh,  miserie!     All  flesh  is  grass! 
Unhappy  I! 

Burges  Johnson 

THE  POET  BETRAYED* 

Heinrich  Heine  and  Clinton  Scollard  Construct  a  Rondeau 

Immortal  eyes,  why  do  they  never  die? 
They  come  between  me  and  the  cheerful  sky 

And  take  the  place  of  every  sphinx-like  star. 

They  haunt  me  always,  always;  and  they  mar 
The  comfort  of  my  sleek  tranquillity. 

In  dreams  you  lean  your  cheek  on  mine  and  sigh; 
And  all  the  old,  caressing  words  float  by. 
They  haunt  me  always,  always;  yet  they  are 
Immortal  lies. 

Oh,  love  of  mine,  half-queen,  half-butterfly, 
Your  tore  my  soul  to  hear  its  dying  cry. 

And  soiled  my  purpose  with  a  deathless  scar. 
Go  then,  my  broken  songs,  go  near  and  far 
And  woman's  love  and  her  inconstancy 
Immortalize. 

Louis  Untermeyer 

THE  PASSIONATE  ESTHETE  TO  HIS  LOVE* 


Andrew  Lang  and  Oscar  Wilde  turn   a   Nursery  Rhyme 
into  a  Rondeau  Redouble. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt  thou  be  mine? 

Thou  shalt  not  wash  dishes  nor  yet  feed  the  swine, 

*  From  — and  Other  Poets,  by  Louis  Untermeyer.     Copyright 
1916,  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Publishers. 


478  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

But  sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam, 
And  feast  ufon  strawberries ,  sugar  and  cream. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  brighten  and  beam 
Joyous  assent  with  a  rapturous  sign; 

Hasten  ihe  Vision — quicken  the  Dream — 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt  thou  be  mine? 

* 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks;   come,  do  not  deem 

Thou  needst  not  be  mindful  of  sheep  or  of  kine; 

Thou  shalt  not  peel  onions  nor  cook  them  in  steam, 
Thou  shalt  not  wash  dishes  nor  yet  feed  the  swine. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  thou  shalt  recline 
Languid  and  limp  by  a  silvery  stream; 

Thou  shalt  not  grieve  though  the  world  is  malign. 
But  sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  oft  as  we  dine 

I  shall  read  verses  of  mine — ream  upon  ream; 

Whilst  thou  shalt  applaud  me  with,  "Ah,  that  is  fine," 
And  feast  ufon  strawberries,  sugar  and  cream. 

Come,  while  the  days  are  all  laughter  and  shine; 

Come,  while  the  nights  are  all  silence  and  gleam: 
Youth  is  a  goblet;  Love  is  the  wine; 

And  Life  is  a  lyric  that  has  but  one  theme: 
''Curly-locks— Curly-locks!" 

Louis  Untermeyer 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  479 

BEHOLD  THE  DEEDS! 

(Chant    Royal) 

[Being  the  Plaint  of  Adolphe  Culpepper  Ferguson,  Salesman 
of  Fancy  Notions,  held  in  durance  of  his  Landlady  for  a  failure 
to  connect  on  Saturday  night.] 


I  would  that  all  men  my  hard  case  might  know; 

How  grievously  I  suffer  for  no  sin: 
I,  Adolphe  Culpepper  Ferguson,  for  lo! 

I,  of  my  landlady  am  locked  in, 
For  being  short  on  this  sad  Saturday, 
Nor  having  shekels  of  silver  wherewith  to  pay; 
She  has  turned  and  is  departed  with  my  key; 
Wherefore,  not  even  as  other  boarders  free, 

I  sing  (as  prisoners  to  their  dungeon  stones 
When  for  ten  days  they  expiate  a  spree) : 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


II 

One  night  and  one  day  have  I  wept  my  woe; 

Nor  wot  I  when  the  morrow  doth  begin. 
If  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Briggs  &  Co., 

To  pray  them  to  advance  the  requisite  tin 
For  ransom  of  their  salesman,  that  he  may 
Go  forth  as  other  boarders  go  alway — 

As  those  I  hear  now  flocking  from  their  tea, 
Led  by  the  daughter  of  my  landlady 

Piano-ward.     This  day  for  all  my  moans. 
Dry  bread  and  water  have  been  served  me. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


480  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 


III 

Miss  Amabel  Jones  is  musical,  and  so 

The  heart  of  the  young  he-boarder  doth  win, 
Playing  "The   Maiden's  Prayer,"  adagio — 

That  fetcheth  him,  as  fetcheth  the  banco  skin 
The  innocent  rustic.      For  my  part,  I  pray: 
That  Badarjewska  maid  may  wait  for  aye 
Ere  sits  she  with  a  lover,  as  did  we 
Once  sit  together,  Amabel!      Can  it  be 

That  all  that  arduous  wooing  not  atones 
For  Saturday  shortness  of  trade  dollars  three? 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


IV 

Yea!   she  forgets  the  arm  was  wont  to  go 

Around  her  waist.      She  wears  a  buckle  whose  pin 
Galleth  the  crook  of  the  young  man's  elbow; 

/  forget  not,  for  I  that  youth  have  been. 
Smith  was  aforetime  the  Lothario  gay. 
Yet  once,  I  mind  me.  Smith  was  forced  to  stay 
Close  in  his  room.      Not  calm,  as  I,  was  he; 
But  his  noise  brought  no  pleasaunce,  verily. 

Small  ease  he  gat  of  playing  on  the  bones. 
Or  hammering  on  his  stove-pipe,  that  I  see. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


Thou,  for  whose  fear  the  figurative  crow 
I  eat,  accursed  be  thou  and  all  thy  kin! 
Thee  will  I  show  up — yea,  up  will  I  show 

Thy  too  thick  buckwheats,  and  thy  tea  too  thin. 
Ay!  here  I  dare  thee,  ready  for  the  fray! 
Thou  dost  not  "keep  a  first-class  house,"  I  say! 
It  does  not  with  the  advertisements  agree. 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  481 

Thou  lodgest  a  Briton  with  a  puggaree, 

And  thou  hast  harboured  Jacobses  and  Cohns, 

Also  a  Mulligan.     Thus  denounce  I  thee! 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 

ENVOY 

Boarders!  the  worst  I  have  not  told  to  ye: 
She  hath  stolen  my  trousers,  that  I  may  not  flee 

Privily  by  the  window.     Hence  these  groans. 
There  is  no  fleeing  in  a  roie  de  nuit. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 

H .  C.  Bunner 

CHANT  ROYAL  OF  THE  DEJECTED  DIPSOMANIAC 

(To  Hal  Steed) 

Some  fools  keep  ringing  the  dumb-waiter  bell 

Just  as  I  finish  killing  Uncle  Ned; 

I  wonder  if  they  could  have  heard  him  yell? 

A  moment  since  I  cursed  at  them  and  said: 

"This  is  a  pretty  time  to  bring  the  ice!" 

— Old  Uncle  Ned!      Two  times  of  late,  or  thrice, 

I've  thought  of  prodding  him  with  something  keen, 

But  always  Fate  has  seemed  to  intervene; 

Last  night,  for  instance,  I  was  in  the  mood, 

But  I  was  far  too  drunken  yestere'en — 

My  way  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good] 

At  Mrs.  Dumple's,  last  week,  when  I  fell 

And  spoiled  her  dinner  party  I  was  led 

Out  to  a  cab;  they  saw  I  was  not  well 

And  took  me  home  and  tucked  me  into  bed. 

I  should  quit  mingling  hashish  with  my  rice! 

I  should  give  over  singing  "Three  Blind  Mice" 

At  funerals!     Why  will  I  make  a  scene? 

Why  should  I  feed  my  cousins  Paris  Green? 

I   am  increasingly  misunderstood: 

When  I  am  tactless,  people  think  'tis  spleen. 

Afy  wa-j  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good. 


482  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Why  should  one  cry  that  he  is  William  Tell, 

Then  flip  a  pippin  from  his  hostess'  head 

That  none  but  he  can  see?      Why  should  one  dwell 

Upon  the  fallings  of  the  newly  wed 

At  wedding  breakfasts?      Can  I  not  be  Nice? 

I  am  so  silly  and  so  full  of  vice! 

Such   prestidigitator  tricks,   I  ween. 

As  finding  false  teeth  in  a  soup  tureen 

Are  not  real  humour;  they  are  crass  and  crude. 

And  cast  suspicion  on  the  host's  cuisine: 

Afy  wa-j  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good. 

My  wife  and  her  best  friend,  a  social  swell. 
Zoo-ward  I  lured  to  see  the  cobras  fed; — 
"We  can't  get  home,"  I  giggled,  "for  the  El 
Is  broken,  Sarah — let's  elope,  instead!" 
I   spoke  of  all  she'd  have  to  sacrifice, 
And  she  seemed  yielding  to  me,  once  or  twice, 
Until  my  wife  broke  in  and  said,  "Eugene, 
Your  finger  nails  are  seldom  really  clean; — 
I'd  loose  poor  Sarah's  hand,  Eugene,  1  would!" 
How  weak  and  stupid  I  have  always  been! 
Afy  tf^y  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good. 

I  drink  and  doze  and  wake  and  think  of  hell, 

My  eyes  are  blear  from  all  the  tears  I  shed: 

I'm  pitiably  bald:  I'm  but  a  shell! 

I  sobbed  to-day,  "I  wish  that  I  were  dead!" 

I  wish  I  could  quit  drugs  and  drink  and  dice. 

I  wish  I  had  not  talked  of  chicken  lice 

The  Sunday  that  we  entertained  the  Dean, 

Nor  shouted  to  his  wife  that  paraffin 

Would  make  her  thin  beard  grow,  nor  played  the  food 

Was  pennies  and  her  face  a  slot  machine: 

My  way  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good. 

— That  bell  again.     A  voice:  "Is  your  name  Bryce? 
These  goods  is  C,  O.  D.     Send  down  the  price!" 
"Bryce  lives,"  I  yell,  "at  Number  Seventeen!" 
Bryce  doesn't  live  there,  but  I  feel  so  mean 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  483 

I  laugh  and  lie;  my  tone  is  harsh  and  rude. 
— Uncle  is  gone!      I'm  phthisical  and  lean — 
My  way  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good! 

Don  Marquis 


THE  SESTINA  OF  THE  MINOR  POET 

Critics  have  damned  our  calling,  since  the  sun 
First  rose  to  tip  Achilles'  spear  with  light: 

One  wonders  how  the  little  that  is  done 
Ever  survives  even  a  summer  night; 

And  we — we  wonder  more  than  any  one 
Why  minor  poets  ever  strive  to  write. 

What  use  is  it  to  wonder?      We  must  write 
Whether  we  will  or  no.      Under  the  sun 

God  keeps  a  little  sacred  flame  alight 
E'en  in  the  mind  of  this  unable  one, 

Though  Critic  Death  ring  down  in  dreamless  night 
A  curtain  on  so  many  things  undone. 

And  many  wasted  hours  and  ill  things  done, — 
Not  only  in  bright  day,  but  in  dark  night, 

A  meanness  hidden  from  the  genial  sun; 
Wherefore  'tis  always  difficult  to  write 

And  to  God's  mercy  testify,  when  one 
Has  been  conspirator  against  the  light. 

Poets,  I  think,  do  mostly  love  the  light. 
And  scrawl  sestinas  to  the  dying  sun. 

When  haply  they  have  skill  enough  to  write — 
Sighing  to  think  how  the  sun-god  is  done 

To  death  by  the  returning  wheel  of  night.   .  .  . 
Yet  night  they  woo  as  much  as  anyone. 

With  every  bawd  and  ruffler  they  are  one. 
And  little  credit  find  they  with  the  light 


484  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

When  through  the  morning  window  streams  the 
sun.   .   .   . 

I  fear  me  'tis  on  water  that  they  write: 
On  soda  water  epics  have  been  done 

More  lasting  than  the  lyrics  overnight! 

Yet  there  is  grace  in  sleep;  and  sometimes  night 
May  bring  to  solace  some   unhappy  one 

Dreams  sent  by  God  to  make,  in  darkness,  light: 
With  but  a  spark  of  hope,  much  may  be  done: 

And  even  poets  may  contrive  to  write 
Something  to  last  a  little  in  the  Sun. 

There  was  a  helpful  humor  in  the  Sun. 

And  yet — how  hard  these  verses  were  to  write 

Will  scarcely  be  believed  by  anyone! 

Norman  Davey 

"HE  COLLECTED  HIS  THOUGHTS" 

"He  collected  his  thoughts,"  said  the  tome, 
A  statement  that  left  me  perplexed, 

For  there  wasn't  a  thought  in  his  dome. 

"He  collected  his  thoughts,"  said  the  tome. 

How  could  he,  with  Nobody  Home, 
As  is  perfectly  plain  from  the  text? 

"He  collected  his  thoughts,"  said  the  tome, 
A  statement  that  left  me  perplexed! 

Edward  Anthony 

"SUCH  STUFF  AS  DREAMS" 

Jenny  kiss'd  me  in  a  dream; 

So  did  Elsie,  Lucy,  Cora, 
Bessie,  Gwendolyn,  Eupheme, 

Alice,  Adelaide,  and  Dora. 
Say  of  honor  I'm  devoid, 

Say  monogamy  has  missed  me, 
But  don't  say  to  Dr.  Freud 

Jenny  kissed  me. 

Franklin  P.  Adams 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES  485 


NOCTURNE  =S 

I  cannot  read,  I  cannot  rest; 

I  only  hear  the  mournful  Muse. 
A  wan  moon  staggers  in  the  West, 
I  cannot  read,  I  cannot  rest.   .   .   . 
Below,  a  lonely  feline  pest 

Makes  the  night  loud  with  amorous  views. 
I  cannot  read — I  cannot  rest! 

I  only  hear  the  mournful  mews. 
Louis  Uniermeyer 

EPITAPH  FOR  A  DESERVING  LADY 

She  never  wrote  a  book, 

She  wasn't  literary. 
Shck  stayed  an  honest  cook, 
She  never  wrote  a  book, 
Contented  not  to  look 

Beyond  the  culinary. 
She  never  wrote  a  book! 

She    wasn't    literary! 

Edward  Anthony 

*  From  — and  Other  Poets  by  Louis  Untermeyer.     Copyright 
1916,  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Publishers. 


ADAPTATIONS 


RONDEL 

Frangois   Villon,   1460 

Good-bye!  the  tears  are  In  my  eyes; 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  prettiest; 

Farewell,  of  women  born  the  best; 
Good-bye!  the  saddest  of  good-byes. 
Farewell!  with  many  vows  and  sighs 

My  sad  heart  leaves  you  to  your  rest; 
Farewell!  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes; 
Farewell!   from  you  my  miseries 

Are  more  than  now  may  be  confessed. 

And  most  by  thee  have  I  been  blessed, 
Yea,  and  for  thee  have  wasted  sighs; 
Good-bye!  the  last  of  my  good-byes. 

Andrew  Lang 


SPRING 

Charles  D'Orleans,  1391-1465 
The  new-liveried  year. — Sir  Henry   Wotton. 

The  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold 
Of  wind,  of  rain,  of  bitter  air; 

And  he  goes  clad  in  cloth  of  gold. 
Of  laughing  suns  and  season  fair; 

No  bird  or  beast  of  wood  or  wold 
But  doth  with  cry  or  song  declare 

The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 

All  founts,  all  rivers,  seaward  rolled, 
489 


490  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

The  pleasant  summer  livery  wear, 
With  silver  studs  on  broidered  vairj 
The  world  puts  off  its  raiment  old, 
The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 

Andrew  Lang 

REGRETS  * 
A   Rondel 

You  would  not  hear  me  speak;  you  never  knew, 
Will  never  know,  the  eloquence   unique 

It  was  my  purpose   to  bestow  on  you; 
You  would  not  hear  me  speak. 

Dear!    it  was  no  caprice,  or  idle  freak: 
Perhaps  I   did  not  even  mean  to  woo: 

My  meaning  was  not  very  far  to  seek: 

I  might  have  gained  the  end  I  had  in  view; 

I  might  have  failed,  since  words  are  often  weak; 
It  never  can  be  settled  now:  adieu! 

You  would  not  hear  me  speak. 

J .  K.  Stefhen 

ARCADIANS  CONFER  IN  EXILE  * 
After  Charles  Garnier 


So  long  ago  it  was!     Nay,  is  it  true 
In  verity  we  passed  a  month  or  so 
In  Arcady  when  life  and  love  were  new 
So  long  ago? 

The  tide  of  time's  indomitable  flow. 
Augmenting,  rears  a  drearier  realm,  whereto 
We  twain  are  exiled.     Yet  ...  I  do  not  know  .  .  . 
Now  that  a  woman  calls,  whose  eyes  are  blue, 

*  This   poem   belongs   in   the   division   in   vv'hich   roundels   are 
included. 


ADAPTATIONS  491 

Whose  speech  is  gracious — strangely  sweet  and  low 
She  calls,  and  smiles  as  Stella  used  to  do 
So  long  ago. 


II 


I  am  not  fit  to  follow;  yet  I  pray 
Some  mighty  task  be  set  me,  to  commit 
In  her  dear  name,  for  trifles  to  essay 
I  am  not  fit. 

Nay,  I,  unstable  and  bereft  of  wit — 
Even  l! — return  to  my  old  love  to-day. 
Whose  bounty  is  so  fond  and  infinite 
That  I  am  heartened,  and  made  strong,  and  may 
Not  even  falter  in  deserving  it. 
If  but  for  dread  lest  of  such  grace  men  say 
I  am  not  fit. 

Ill 

Time  has  changed  naught  in  us;   for  now  the  din 
And  darkness  of  tempestuous  years,  that  wrought 
So  vainly,  lift;  and  it  is  lightly  seen 
Time  has  changed  naught. 

Such  knowledge  of  those  brawling  years  I  bought: 
TAe  thing  which  shall  be  is  that  which  has  been^ 
W hen  heaven  again  surfrises  us,  unsought. 
And  life  returns  full  circle;  and  we  win 
Again  to  realms  which  with  how  little  thought 
We  ceded,  and  find  loyalty  wherein 
Tifne  has  changed  naught. 


IV 


Sweetheart,  I  wait;  now,  as  in  time  gone  by. 
Your  suppliant,  half-frightened,  half-elate. 
Outside  the  trellised  doors  of  Arcady, 
Sweetheart,  I  wait. 


492  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Again  I  glimpse  its  meadows — through  a  grate, 
Alas! — and  streams  and  groves  and  cloudless  sky; 
And  cry  to  you  to  be  compassionate, — 
Yea,  as  of  old  to  Stella,  now  I  cry 
To  you  that  once  were  Stella;  and  my  fate 
Attends  your  piloting,  for  whose  reply, 
Sweetheart,  I  wait. 

James  Branch  Cabell 

RONDEAU 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in;     ^■ 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in:  S> 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad,  '  ■ 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me! 

Leigh  Hunt 

HIS  MOTHER'S  SERVICE  TO  OUR  LADY 

{Frangois   ViUo?t) 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 

Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell, — 
I,  thy  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call, 

Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 

Albeit  in  nought  I  be  commendable. 
But  all   mine   undeserving  may  not  mar 
Such  mercies  as  thy  sovereign  mercies  are; 

Without  the  which  (as  true  words  testify) 
No  soul  can  reach  thy  Heaven  so  fair  and  far. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto   thy  Son   say  thou   that   I   am   His, 
And  to  me  graceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss, 
Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 


ADAPTATIONS  493 

Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 
Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bounden  service  was. 
Oh,  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby!) 
The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

A  pitiful  poor  woman,  shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd  in  letter-lore. 

Within  my  parish-cloister   I   behold 

A  painted  Heaven  where  harps  and  lutes  adore. 

And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  seethe  full  sore: 

One  bringeth  fear,  the  other  joy  to  me. 

That  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be, — 
Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I; 

And  that  which  faith  desires,  that  let  it  see. 
For  in   this   faith   I   choose  to  live   and   die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess!  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter. 

Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 
And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high. 

Offering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 

Such  as  He  is.  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare, 
And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

{Francois   Villon) 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


494  LYRIC  FORMS  FROM  FRANCE 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?    . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?    .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord. 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

I  WONDER  IN  WHAT  ISLE  OF  BLISS 

I  wonder  in  what  Isle  of  Bliss 

Apollo's  music  fills  the  air; 
In  what  green  valley  Artemis 

For  young  Endymion  spreads  the  snare; 
Where   Venus  lingers   debonair: 

The  Wind  has  blown  them  all  away — 
And  Pan  lies  piping  in  his  lair — 

Where  are  the  Gods  of  Yesterday? 

Say  where  the  great  Semiramis 

Sleeps  in  a  rose-red  tomb;  and  where 

The  precious  dust  of  Cassar  is. 
Or  Cleopatra's  yellow  hair: 


ADAPTATIONS  495 

Where  Alexander  Do-and-Dare; 

The  Wind  has  blown  them  all  away — 
And  Redbeard  of  the  Iron  Chair; 

Where  are  the  Dreams  of  Yesterday? 

Where  is  the  Queen  of  Herod's  kiss, 

And  Phyrne  in  her  beauty  bare; 
By  what  strange  sea  does  Tomyris 

With  Dido  and  Cassandra  share 
Divine  Proserpina's  despair; 

The  Wind  has  blown  them  all  away — 
For  what  poor  Ghost  does  Helen  care? 

Where  are  the  Girls  of  Yesterday? 

Alas  for  lovers!      Pair  by  pair 

The  Wind  has  blown  them  all  away: 

The  young  and  yare,  the  fond  and  fair: 
Where  are  the  Snows  of  Yesterday? 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


A  Ballad  at  Parting    . 

A  Ballade  of  a  Book-Re- 
viewer       .... 

A  Ballade  of  Ballade- 
Mongers    .... 

A  Ballade  of  Brides    . 

A  Ballade  of  Calypso  . 

A  Ballade  of  Death  and 
Time  .... 

A  Ballade  of  Evolution 

A  Ballade  of  Indignation   . 

A  Ballade  of  Irresolution    . 

A  Ballade   of   Kings    . 

A  Ballade  of  Midsummer   . 

A  Ballade  of  Midsummer   . 

A  Ballade  of  Old  Sweet- 
hearts        .... 

A   Ballade   of   Roses    . 

A  Ballade  of  Spring's  Unrest 

A  Ballade  of  Suicide   . 

A  Ballade  of  the  First  Rain 

A  Ballade  of  the  Night 

A  Ballad  of  Appeal    . 

A  Ballad  of  Bath 

A  Ballad  of  Dreamland 

A  Ballad  of  Francois  Villon 

A  Ballad  of   Heroes    . 

A  Ballad   of  Heroes    . 

A  Ballad  of  Sark 

A  Ballad  to  Queen  Elizabeth 

A  Burlesque  Rondo 

A  Complacent  Rondeau  Re- 
double       .... 

Across  the  World  I  Speak 
to    Thee     .... 

A  Daughter  of  the  North    . 


PAGE 

Algernon    Charles   Sivinburne      162 

G.   K.   Cheiterton    .         .         .237 

■Augustus  M.  Moore  .  .463 
T.    A.    Daly    .  .         .223 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts   .         .      216 

B.  L.  Taylor  .  .  .  .259 
Grant   Allen    ....      227 

Carolyn  Wells          .  .  .      120 

B.  L.  Taylor  .         .  .  .211 

Arthur  Symons        .  .  .      150 

Brander  Matthews  .  .  .184 

Clinton  Scollard      .  .  .      187 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  .  .  215 
Justin  Huntley  McCarthy  .  210 
B.  L.  Taylor  .  .  .  .  181 
G.  K.  Chesterton  .  .  .247 
G.  K.  Chesterton  .  .  .175 
Margaret  L.  Woods  .  .168 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  147 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  167 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  20  8 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  132 
Austin  Dobson  .         .         .      204 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson  .  .20  3 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  159 
Austin  Dobson  .         .         .       1 64 

Louis  Untermeyer   .         .         .      476 

Louis  Untermeyer   .         .         .391 

Edith  M.  Thomas  .  .  .437 
Gelett  Burgess  .         .         .      389 

497 


498     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


A  Double  Ballad  of  August 
A   Double   Ballad   of   Good 

Counsel 
A  Father  Speaks 
After  Watteau 
A  Garden  Piece 
A    Greek   Gift 
A  Greeting   . 
A  Huproar    . 
A  Kiss   . 
Alas,   For   the   Fleet   Wings 

of  Time    . 
All  Lovely  Things 
All  Men  Are  Free 
Alone  in  Arcady  . 
A  Man   Must  Live 
Among    My   Books 
An  American  Girl 
An   April    Fool    . 
A  Pitcher  of  Mignonette    . 
Apology         .... 
Arcadians  Confer  in  Exile   . 
A    Rondeau    of   Remorse 
A    Rose         .... 
A  Roundel    .... 
A  Roundel  of  Rest 
A  Snowflake  in  May   . 
Asphodel        .... 
At  a  Breton   Sea-Blessing    . 
A    Tear         .... 
At    Home      .... 
At  Peep  of  Dawn 

At  Sea   

August  ?  :  Hottest      Day     o: 

the  Year   .... 
Austin     Dobson     Recites     a 

Ballade  by  Wav  of  Retort 
A  Very   Woful   Ballade    of 

the  Art  Critic   . 
A  Villanelle  of  Love    . 
*'A    Voice    in    the     Scented 

Night"       .         .         .         . 
"Awake,    Awake!" 


Algernon   Charles   Swinburne 

Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 
Louis  Untermeyer   . 
Austin   Dobson 
Edmund   Gosse 
Austin   Dobson 
Austin  Dobson 
Ernest  Radford 
Austin   Dobson 

Clinton    Scollard    . 
Christopher  Morley 
Eliott  Napier  . 
Clinton    Scollard    . 
Charlotte   Perkins   Stetson 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck    . 
Brander  Matthews 
Henry  Cuyler  Bunner    . 
Henry  Cuyler  Bunner    . 
Arthur  Gutter  man  . 
Jatnes  Branch  Cabell 
Burges   Johnson 
Arlo    Bates 

Arthur   Compton-Rickett 
Arthur  Symons 
Clinton  Scollard 
Graham   R.    Tomsoft 
Margaret    Lovell   Andrews 
Austin   Dobson 
T.    A.   Daly    . 
Clinton  Scollard 
Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 
F 
Brander  Matthews 

Louis  Untermeyer   . 

Andrew  Lang 
R.    L.    Megroz 

Austin   Dobson 

Frank   Dempster    Sherman 


PAGE 

265 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY     499 


Babyhood       .         .         .         . 
Ballad  Against  the  Enemies 

of   France 
Ballad:    Before    My    Book- 
shelves       .... 
Ballade  .         .         .         . 

Ballade  .         .         .         . 

Ballade  a  Double  Refrain    . 
Ballad  Against  the  Enemies 

of  France 
Ballade  by  the  Fire 
Ballade     des    Enfants    Sans 

Souci  .... 

Ballade   des  Pendus 
Ballade  for   the  Laureate    . 
Ballade    of    a    Backslider    . 
Ballade  of  a  Garden   . 
Ballade  of  Antique  Dances  . 
Ballade  of  Aspiration  . 
Ballade      of      a      Toyakuni 

Colour   Print 
Ballade  of  August 
Ballade  of  Books  Unbought 
Ballade  of  Broken  Flutes    . 
Ballade    of    Caution     . 
Ballade  of  Christmas  Ghosts 
Ballade    of   Crying    for   the 

Moon  .... 

Ballade  of  Dead  Actors 
Ballade  of  Dead  Cities 
Ballade    of    Dead    Ladies    . 
Ballade    of    Dead    Poets     . 
Ballade  of  Dime  Novels 
Ballade   of  Dottiness    . 
Ballade   of   Dreams 
Ballade   of    Easter   Dawn    . 
Ballade   of  Farewell    . 
Ballade  of  Fog  in  the  Canon 
Ballade  of  Incipient  Lunacy 
Ballade  of  June    . 
Ballade    of    Ladies'    Names 
Ballade  of  Midsummer  Days 

and  Nights 


Algernon    C/iarles   S-zvinburne 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne 


PAGE 

374 
121 


Nelson  Rich   Tyerman    . 

231 

W.  E.  Henley 

473 

Louis  Untermeyer   . 

467 

Edwin  Meade  Robinson 

253 

Richard  Le  GalUenne 

122 

Edward    Arlington    Robinson      195 

0.   E.   Elton    . 

142 

Andrew    Lang 

127 

Andrew    Lang 

138 

Edwin   Meade   Robinson 

224 

Arthur  Reed  Ropes 

207 

W.  E.  Henley 

154 

W.  E.  Henley 

180 

W.  E.  Henley 

155 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers 

186 

Christopher   Morley    .     . 

235 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

191 

Art/iiir  Guiterman  . 

229 

Andrew  Lang 

170 

Patrick   R.   Chalmers 

244 

W.  E.  Henley 

149 

Andrew  Lang 

144 

Andrezu  Lang 

128 

Clinton    Scollard     . 

151 

Arthur  Guiterman   . 

242 

Edward   Anthony    . 

470 

Rose  E.  Macaulay   . 

194 

Edwin   Meade   Robinson 

176 

Brian  Hooker 

295 

Gelett  Burgess 

182 

A.  P.  Herbert 

469 

W.  E.  Henley 

179 

W.  E.  Henley 

220 

W.  E.  Henley 

.      254 

500     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


PAGE 

Ballade  of  My  Lady's  Beauty  Joyce  Kilmer  . 

212 

Ballade  of  Old  Laughter    . 

Richard  Le  Gallienne     . 

.      249 

Ballade  of  Old  Plays  . 

Andrew  Lang 

.      152 

Ballade    of    Primitive    Man  Andrevj  Lang 

.      228 

Ballade     of     Schopenhauer's 

Philosophy 

Franklin  P.  Adams 

.      246 

Ballade    of    Solitude    . 

William   Black 

192 

Ballade    of    Spring 

W.  E.  Henley 

177 

Ballade      of      the      Ancient  Nate  Salsbury  and 

Wheeze       .... 

Newman  Levy     248 

Ballade  of  the  Caxton  Head 

Lionel    Johnson 

.      233 

Ballade   of   the   Cognoscenti 

Gelett  Burgess 

.      198 

Ballad-    of    the    Dreamland 

Rose 

Brian  Hooker 

.      209 

Ballade    of    the    Forest    in 

Summer      .... 

Patrick   R.   Chalmers 

.      188 

Ballade   of  the   Girton   Girl  /^ndrezv  Lang 

.      221 

Ballade     of     the     Hanging 

Gardens   of   Babylon 

Richard  Le   Gallienne 

217 

Ballade  of  the  Journey's  End 

Lady  Margaret  Sackville 

205 

Ballade  of  the  Little  Things 

That  Count 

Burges    Johnson 

.      226 

Ballade  of  the  Lost  Refrain 

Christopher    Morley 

118 

Ballade   of   the   Nightingale 

Archibald   T.   Strong      . 

137 

Ballade    of   the    Oubliette    . 

B.  L.  Taylor  . 

243 

Ballade    of    the    Pipesmoke 

Carry          .... 

B.  L.  Taylor  . 

183 

Ballade    of    the    Real    and 

Ideal           .... 

Andrew  Lang 

258 

Ballade   of   the   Sea-Folk    . 

William  Sharp 

158 

Ballade  of  the  Song  of  the 

Sea-Wind 

William  Sharp 

157 

Ballade     of     the     Southern 

Cross           .... 

Andrew  Lang 

166 

Ballade    of    the    Tempting 

Book           .... 

T.    A.   Daly    . 

237 

Ballade  of  the  Things  That 

Remain       .... 

Richard  Le   Gallienne    . 

189 

Ballade  of  the  Unattainable 

Andrew  Lang 

234 

Ballade  of  the    Unchanging 

Beauty        .... 

Richard   Le   Gallienne    . 

156 

Ballade    of   Truisms    . 

W.  E.  Henley 

202 

Ballade   of   Vain   Hopes 

William  Sharp 

196 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY     501 


PAGE 

Ballade  of  Windy  Nights   . 

Will  H.  Ogilvie      . 

169 

Ballade     of     Wisdom     and 

Folly          .         .         .         . 

Carolyn  Wells 

.      257 

Ballade    of    Women     . 

Archibald   T.  Strong 

136 

Ballade   of  Women   I  Love 

Eugene  Field  . 

219 

Ballade   of  Youth  and  Age 

W.  E.  Henley 

.      256 

Ballade    to    Theocritus,    In 

Winter                ... 

Andreiv  Lang 

.      173 

Ballade  to  the  Women 

T.   A.   Daly    . 

225 

Ballad  of  the  Gibbet   . 

Andrew  Lang 

.      126 

Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old 

Time          .... 

Algernon    Charles   Swinburne      129 

Ballad    of    the    Women    of 

Paris           .... 

Algernon   Charles   Swinburne      130 

Ballad  Written  for  a  Bride- 

groom       .... 

Algernon    Charles   Swinburne      1  3  1 

"Before   the   Dawn"    . 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck    . 

316 

Behold   the   Deeds 

H.  C.  Bunner 

479 

Between  the  Lines 

Ernest    Radford 

.      408 

Between  the  Showers    . 

Amy  Levy 

.      382 

Beyond   the   Night 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck    . 

.      364 

Blind  Love    .... 

Graham  R.   Tomson 

.      403 

By   the   Well 

Edmund   Gosse 

.      334 

Camelot         .         .         .         . 

Andrew  Lang 

.      355 

Chant     of      the     Changing 

Hours       .... 

Don    Marquis 

.      279 

Chant    Royal    of   August    . 

Ethel  Talbot   . 

.      284 

Chant  Royal  of  California  . 

Gelett  Burgess 

.      293 

Chant  Royal  of  the  Dejected 

Dipsomaniac 

Don  Marquis  . 

.      481 

Chant  Royal  of  the  God  of 

Love           .         .         .         . 

John    Payne    . 

.      280 

Chant    Royal    of    the    True 

Romance    .         .         .         . 

Gelett  Burgess 

291 

Circe 

Austin  Dobson 

398 

Contributed  by  Mr.  Andrew 

Lang           .         .         .         . 

Anthony  C.  Deane 

.      466 

Culture  in  the  Slums   . 

W.  E.  Henley 

.      472 

Cupid     and     the     Shepherc 

Clinton  Scollard 

.      455 

Dead  Poets   .         .         .         . 

Graham    R.    Tomson 

146 

Dear    Reader 

Ernest   Radford 

.     406 

502     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


Double  Ballade  of  Life  and 
Fate 

Double  Ballade  of  the  Noth- 
ingness of  Things    . 

Double  Ballad  of  the  Sing- 


ers of  the  Time 

Earth  Love    . 
Epitaph     for    a     Deserving 
Lady  .... 

Epitaph  in  Ballade  Form    . 
Etude   Realiste 
Expectation    .... 

Fancies  in  Filigree 
Farewell,  Farewell,  Old  Year 
"Farewell,  Renown!"   . 
Far   Have    You    Come,   My 

Lady,  From  the  Town    . 
First    Sight    . 
Flower-Pieces 
Foot-Note  for  Idyls 
For  a  Birthday    . 
For  a  Copy  of  Theocritius  . 
For  Me  the  Blithe  Ballade   . 
Fortunate    Love    . 
"From   Battle,    Murder   and 

Sudden  Death,  Good  Lord 

Deliver   Us"      . 
From  Theodore  de  Banville 


PAGE 

W.  E.  Henley          .         .  .266 

W.  E.  Henley          .         .  .269 

Jo/iii    Payne     .         .         .  .263 

John   Drinkwater    .         .  .      318 

Edward   Anthony    .         .  .      485 

Richard  Aldington           .  .       123 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     373 

Edmund   Gosse        .         .  .      333 

James    Branch    Cabell    .  .      323 

Clinton    Scollard     .         .  .17+ 

Austin  Dobson         .         .  .      328 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .  .      310 

Edmund    Gosse         .         .  .      333 
Algernon    Charles   Swinburne     376 

James    Branch    Cabell    .  .      201 

Christopher   Morley         .  .      349 

Austin  Dobson          .         .  .417 

Clinton  Scollard      .         .  .      117 

Edmund  Gosse         .         .  .      333 


John  Moran    .  .         .199 

Arthur  Reed  Ropes         .         .      302 


Genoa 

Grave  Gallantry   . 

Heartsease   Country 
"He     Collected     His 

Thoughts" 
Her   Spinning-Wheel 
His  Mother's  Service 

Lady 

If  I  Were  King   . 
If  I  Were  King  . 


to 


.  Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     378 

.  James    Branch    Cabell  .      367 

.  Algernon    Charles    Swinburne      148 

.  Edward  Anthony    .         .        .      484 

.  Carolyn  Wells  .         .        .      349 

Our 

.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti   .         .492 

.  W.  E.  Henley  .         .         .345 

.  Justin    Huntley    McCarthy    .      345 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY     503 


If  Love   Could  Last    . 
In  After  Days      . 
In   Beechen   Shade 
In  Explanation 
In  Flanders  Fields 
"In   Love's  Disport"    . 
In  the  Grass 
In  the  Water 
In  Thy  Clear  Eyes 
In  Visionshire 
In  Winter 

I  Wonder  in  What   Isle 
Bliss   .... 

Jean-Frangois  Millet    . 


PAGE 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

341 

Austin  Dobson 

329 

Graham   R.    Tomson 

357 

Walter    Learned 

400 

John   McCrae 

370 

Walter   Crane 

336 

Edmund  Gosse 

334 

Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 

160 

Arlo  Bates        .... 

340 

Edwin  Meade  Robinson 

354 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

171 

of 


Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 


Graham   R.    Tomson 


King  Boreas  .         .         .    Clinton    Scollard 

"King  Pandion,  He  Is  Dead"  Don   Marquis 


Les  Morts  Vont  Vite 
Les  Morts  Vont  Vite 
Les  Roses  Mortes 
Lohengrin 
Love  in  a  Mist  . 
Love  in  London  . 
Love  Lies  Bleeding 
Lovers'  Quarrel  . 
Love,  Why  So  Long  Away 
Lugubrious  Villanelle  of 
Platitudes 

Maiden   Meditation 
Might  Love  Be  Bought 
Mistletoe  and  Holly    . 
Mors  et  Vita 
My  Dead  Dogs 
My  Love  to  Me 

Night     . 
Nocturne 

Of  Himself  . 

"O   Fons  Bandusiae" 


Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 
Brander  Matthews  . 
Graham.  R.   Tomson 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne 
Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 
Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 
Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 
Edmund    Gosse 
Clinton  Scollard 

Louis  Untermeyer    . 

Carolyn  Wells 
Arlo    Bates 
T.    A.   Daly    . 
Samuel  Waddington 
Rowland   Thirlmere 
W.  E.  Henley 

Arthur  Reed  Ropes 
Louis  Untermeyer   . 

Graham  R.   Tomson 
Austin  Dobson 


494 

430 

288 
197 

.365 
366 
396 
381 
377 
346 
376 
335 
432 

440 

351 
339 
397 
384 
438 
344 

302 
485 

403 
327 


504     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN   THE  ANTHOLOGY 


O  Honey  of 

Hvmettus 

Hill  Henry  Cuyler  Banner    . 

315 

Old   Year      . 

.    Rose  Macaulay 

361 

On  a  Fan  That  Belonged  to 

the   Marquise    de   Pompa- 

dour 

.  Austin  Dobson 

153 

On  a  Nankin  Plate 

.  Austin  Dobson 

418 

"O   Navis"    . 

.   Austin  Dobson 

165 

"On   London   Stones" 

.    Austin  Dobson 

329 

On  Newport  Beach 

.   Henry  Cuyler  Bunner     . 

472 

O  Scorn  Me  Not  . 

.    Cosmo  Monkhouse 

343 

Out         .         .         . 

.   Ernest    Radford 

.      407 

O  Winds  That  Wail 

.   Arthur  Comfton-Rickett 

365 

Pan— A  Villanelle 

.   Oscar   Wilde    . 

425 

Parable 

.  Art/mr  Guiterman  . 

402 

Past    Days     . 

.    Algernon    Charles    Swinburn 

e     380 

"Persicos  Odi"      . 

.   Austin  Dobson 

404 

Philistia 

.   Andreiv  Lang 

355 

Princess  Ballade    . 

.   Joyce  Kilmer   . 

185 

Pulvis  et  Umbra  . 

.   A.  Mary  F.  Robinson    . 

454 

Rain  and   Shine    . 

.   Brander  Matthetvs  . 

255 

Ready   for   the   Ride — 

-1795   Henry  Cuyler  Bunner    . 

303 

Regrets 

.   J.  K.  Stephen  . 

490 

Rizzio's   Love-Song 

.    Algernon    Charles    Swinburn 

e     447 

Rondeau 

.   Robert  Bridges 

331 

Rondeau 

.   Robert  Bridges 

332 

Rondeau 

.   Ernest  Dowson 

342 

Rondeau 

.   Edmund   Gosse 

332 

Rondeau 

.    W.  E.  Henley 

272 

Rondeau 

.   Leigh  Hunt      . 

492 

Rondeau 

.   Annie  Matheson 

338 

Rondeau 

.   John  Payne 

340 

Rondeau 

.    Gareth  Marsh  Stanton   . 

341 

Rondeau  a  la  Baltimo 

re      .    Robert  Grant   . 

348 

Rondeau  a  la  Boston 

.   Robert  Grant  . 

346 

Rondeau  a   la  New  Y 

Drk    .    Robert  Grant  . 

347 

Rondeau  a  la  Philadelp 

hia  .   Robert  Grant  . 

347 

Rondeau :  Oh,  in  My  D 

reams 

I    Flew       . 

.    Gelett    Burgess 

366 

Rondeau    Redouble 

.   Costno  Monkhouse 

390 

Rondeau   Redouble 

.   John  Payne 

389 

Rondeau  Rec 

louble 

.    Graham  R.   Tomson 

388 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY     505 


Rondeaux  of  Cities 

Rondeaux  of  the  Galleries 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel  . 

Rondel 

Rondel 

ship    ..... 
Rondels  .         .         .         . 

Ronsard  Re-voices  a  Truism 
Rose-Leaves  .  .  .  . 
Roundels  of  the  Year  . 


for   September 

of    Perfect    Friend- 


Robert  Grant  . 

Andrew    Lang 

Walter  Crane 

Walter   Crane 

Edmund  Gosse 

W.  E.  Henley 

Andrew  Lang 

Andrew  Lang 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

Christopher  Morley 

John  Payne 

Algerno7i    Charles    Swinburne 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

Gelett  Burgess 
George  Moore 
James  Branch  Cabell 
Austin  Dobson 
John   Drinkwater    . 


PAGE 

346 
355 
305 
306 
318 
319 
301 
489 
306 
301 
304 
331 
316 

308 
314 
135 
397 
311 


Saint  Valentine     . 

Serenade  Triolet  . 

Sestina 

Sestina   ..... 

Sestina  of  the  Tramp  Royal 

Sestina  of  Youth  and  Age  . 

Since  I  Am  Sworn  to  Live 
My  Life 

Six  Triolets 

Sleep 

Song      . 

Song- 
Spring 

Spring  Voices 

Story  of  the  Flowery  King- 
dom  . 

Straw  in  the  Street 

Sub  Rosa 

"Such  Stuff  as  Dreams" 


Henry  Cuyler  Bunner    . 

George  Macdonald 

Edtnund  Gosse 

Algernon    Charles    Swinburne 

Rudyard   Kipling    . 

Gelett    Burgess 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  . 
Ernest  Radford 
Ada  Louise  Martin 
Adelaide   Crapsey    . 
George  Macdonald 
Andrew  Lang 
Ernest    Radford 

James  Branch  Cabell 
Amy  Levy 
Brander  Matthews 
Franklin  P.   Adams 


353 

408 
445 
453 
458 
457 

309 
406 
362 
411 
408 
489 
407 

230 
383 
351 
484 


That  New  Year's  Call  .   Henry  Cuyler  Bunner 

The  Ballade  of  Adaptation  Brander  Matthews 


352 
239 


506     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


The  Ballade  of  Fact  and 
Fiction       .... 

The  Ballade  of  Lovelace    . 

The  Ballade  of  Prose  and 
Rhyme        .... 

The  Ballade  of  the  Incom- 
petent Ballade-Monger    . 

The  Ballade  of  the  Summer 
Boarder      .... 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Cities  . 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies 

The   Ballad   of  Imitation    . 

The  Ballad  of   Melicertes  . 

The  Ballad  of  the  Thrush  . 

The  Chant  of  the  Children 
of  the  Mist 

The  Complaint  of  Lisa 

The  Conqueror  Passes 

The  Dance  of  Death   . 

The  Destined  Maid:  A 
Prayer        .... 

The  Epitaph  in  Form  of  a 
Ballad        .... 

The  Flight  of  Nicolete 

The  Gates  of  Horn 

The  Gods  Are  Dead    . 

The  Hoidens 

The   House  on   the  Hill 

"The  Loves  of  Every  Day" 

The  Marsh  of  Acheron 

The  Moon    . 

The   New   Epiphany 

The   New  Year    . 

Theocritus 

Theodore  de  Banville 

The   Old  and  the  New 

The   Optimist 

The  Passionate  .Esthete  to 
His  Love   .... 

The   Pixies    .... 

The  Poet  Betrayed 

The  Poet's  Prayer 

The  Praise  of  Dionysus 


PAGE 

Brander  Matthews  .         .      24-1 

George   Moore        .         .         .      218 

Austin  Dobson         .         .         ,      260 

J.  K.  Stephen  .         .         .      119 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  .  .471 
Edmund  Gosse         .  .14-3 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti   .  493 

Austin  Dobson  .  .  .  238 
Algernon  Charles  Szvinburne  139 
Austin  Dobson         .         .         .178 

Emily   Pfeijfer  .286 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  449 
James  Branch  Cabell  .  .446 
Austin  Dobson         .         .         .      277 

Richard  Le  GalUenne     .         .      282 


Algernon    Charles   Swinburne 
Graham  R.   Tomson 
Graham  R.   Tomson 
W.  E.  Henley 
James  Branch  Cabell 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 
Witter   Bynner 
Graham  R.   Tomson 
Arthur  Reed  Ropes 
Samuel    Waddington 
Rose  Macaulay 
Oscar   Wilde    . 
Edmund   Gosse 
Brander  Matthews 
Graham  R.   Tomson 

Louis  Untermeyer   . 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck    . 
Louis  Untermeyer    . 
J.  K.  Stephen  . 
Edmund   Gosse 


e      124 

.   213 

.   363 

.   362 

.   206 

437 

214 

.   200 

.   302 

.   290 

.   361 

.   426 

141 

.   360 

.   245 

477 

172 

.   477 

384 

.   275 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY      507 


The   Prayer   of   Dryope 

The   Prodigals 

The   Prodigals 

The  Rondeau 

The   Roundel 

The    Sestina    of   the    Minor 

Poet 

The   Shelley   Memoric^l 

The  Triolet 

The  Wanderer 

Thistle-Down 

Three  Faces 

To  Austin   Dobson 

To    Austin    Dobson,    After 

Himself 
To  Catullus 

To   Catullus.      A   Rondel 
To   Daffodils 
To  Death,  Of  His  Lady 
To    Hesperus 
To  R.  L.  S. 
To  Tamaris 
Transpontine 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet,  After  Catullus 
Triolet  of  the  Bibliophile 
Triolets  After  Moschus 
Triolet   to   Her   Husband 

Tristan  und  Isolde 

Twilight 

Two  Preludes 

Two    Rondels 

Two  Triolets 


PAGE 

Clinton  Scollard  .  .  .  38  7 
Anonymous  ....  464 
Austin  Dobson  .  .  .  115 
Don    Marquis  .  .323 

Algernon    Charles   Swinburne'    373 

Norman  Davey        .         .  .48  3 

Ernest    Radford       .  .405 

Don    Marquis          .         .  .      395 

Austin  Dobson          .  307 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton  40  3 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     3  78 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman  .      116 

Sir  Owen  Seaman  .  .  .  330 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     379 

E.  A.  Mackintosh  .  .  .      358 

Austin  Dobson         .  .  .      326 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  .  .      367 

Graham  R.   Tomson  .  .      429 

Christopher   Morley  .  .358 

Theo.  Marzials        .  .  .      343 

Ernest  Radford        .  .  .406 

Robert   Bridges        .  .  .402 

Robert  Bridges         .  .  .402 

Walter   Crane           .  .  .409 

W.  E.  Henley          .  .  .395 

George  Macdonald  .  411 

Louis  Untermeyer   .  .  .467 

Edmund  Gosse          .  .  .      404 

Charles  Sayle  .         .  .  .405 

Andrew  Lang           .  .  .      404 

Andrew  Lang  .  .  .406 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     381 

Christopher  Morley  308 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     381 

George  Macdonald  .  .      317 

Harrison  Robertson  .  .      40 1 


Upon    the    Stair    I    See    My 

Lady  Stand 
Under   the   Apple-Tree 


Clinton  Scollard 
Edmund  Gosse 


303 
336 


508     INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY 


Under   the   Rose 
"Urceus   Exit" 

Variations 

Venice    . 

Ventimiglia 

Vestigia 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle 

Villanelle  of  Acheron  . 

Villanelle  of  City  and  Coun- 
try     ..... 

Villanelle     of     His     Lady's 
Treasures 

Villanelle  of  Marguerites    . 

Villanelle    of    Sunset    . 

Villanelle  of  the  Poet's  Road 

Villanelle   to   Helen 

Villanelle  to  the  Daffodil    . 

Villanelle,  With   Stevenson's 
Assistance 

Villon    Quits    France 

Villon's  Straight  Tip  to  All 
Cross   Coves 

"Violet"         .         .         .         . 

Vis    Erotis     .         .         .         . 

"Vitas  Hinnuleo" 


PAGE 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck  .  .399 

A  lis  tin  Dobs  on          .  .  .      398 

W.  E.  Henley  .  .  .310 
Algernon  Charles  Sivinburne  379 
Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     378 

Arthur  Symons        .  .  .410 

Edmund    Gosse         .  .  .415 

Edmund   Gosse        .  .  .415 

W.  E.  Henley          .  .  .420 

W.  E.  Henley          .  .  .     All 

W.  E.  Henley          .  .  .473 

Andrew  Lang           .  .  .419 

Andrew  Lang           .  .  .420 

Will  H.  Ogilvie      .  .  .435 

John  Payne      .         .  .  .427 

John  Payne      .         .  .  .428 

Gareth  Marsh  Stanton  .  .433 

Ernest  Dowson        .  .  .      422 

Zoe    Akins       ....      439 

Ernest  Dowson        .  .  .      424 

Ernest  Dowson        .  .  .422 

Ernest  Dowson        .  .  .      424 

Ernest  Dowson  .  .423 

Clinton    Scollard     .  .  .      43 1 

Clinton    Scollard     .  .  .430 

Franklin   P.   Adams  .  .441 

James  Branch  Cabell  .  .134 

W.  E.  Henley          .  .  .475 

Cosmo  Monkhouse  .  .      356 

Clinton  Scollard      .  .  .      339 

Austin  Dobson         .  .  .      307 


We'll  Walk  the  Woods  No 

More  ....   Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

What  Is  To  Come  .  .  W.  E.  Henley 
"What  Makes  the  World?"  Walter  Crane 
"When  Burbadge  Played"  Austin  Dobson 
"When  Finis  Comes"   .         .  Austin  Dobson 


309 
363 
337 
326 
330 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  IN  THE  ANTHOLOGY     509 


"When    I    Saw    You    Last, 

Rose"          ....   Austin  Dobson          .  .  .417 

When   Shakespeare   Laughed  Christopher   Morley  .  .      359 

When  the  Brow  of  June  .  Emily  Pfeiffer  .  ..  .436 
Where     Are     the     Ships     of 

Tyre  ....  Clinton  Scollanl  .  .  .145 
With      Fitzg-erald's     "Omar 

Khayyam"                   .         .    Gleeson  White          .  .  .      232 

"Without   One   Kiss"    .         .    Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  .  .      338 

With  Pipe  and  Book    .         .    Richard   Le    Gallienne  .  .360 

"With  Pipe  and  Flute"        .    Austin    Dobson         .  .  .      328 

With   Strawberries        .         .    W.   E.   Henley        .  .  .      356 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A   baby's  eyes  ere  speech   beg-in    . 

A    baby's    feet,    like    sea-shells    pink     . 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furled    . 

A  baby  shines  as  bright  .... 

Above  the  sea  and  sea-washed  town  we  dwelt 

A  cow,  delighted,  blew  her  horn 

Across  the  noisy  street    ..... 

Across  the  world   I  speak  to   thee 

A   cultured   mind !      Before    I   speak    . 

A   dainty   thing's    the   Villanelle    . 

Against  her  breast  I  set  my  head  and  lay   . 

Again  the  same  strange  might  of  eyes  that  saw 

Ah!  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar   . 

Ah,  Manon,  say,  why  is  it  we 

Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been    . 

Ah,  Postumus,  my  Postumus,   the  years  are   slipping 

Alas,    for    us    no    second    spring    . 

Albeit  the  Venice  girls  get  praise   . 

A  little   kiss   when   no    one    sees    . 

"A    little,    passionately,    not    at    all"     . 

All  Afric,  winged  with  death  and  fire 

All  bathed  in  pearl  and  amber  light    . 

All  heaven,  in  every  baby  born    . 

All   lovely   things   conspire   to    greet    . 

"All  men  are   free  and  equal   born"    . 

All  women  born  are  so  perverse    . 

Along  the  crowded  streets   I   walk   and   think 

A  man  must  live!      We  justify    . 

Among  my  books — what  rest  is  there    . 

Among  the  flowers  of  summer-time  she  stood 

An  April  Fool,   I  swear,   is  one    . 

And  lightly,  like   the  flowers 

"Anna!"     Insipid  and  weak  as  gruel    . 

A   pedigree!      Ah,    lovely   jade    . 

A  pitcher  of  mignonette        .... 

Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse 

511 


by 


PAGE 
37  + 

373 
374 
374 
380 
470 
178 
437 
346 
420 
336 
378 
173 
342 
418 
440 
405 
130 
399 
422 
265 
213 
375 
342 
369 
402 
454 
369 
357 
335 
352 
311 
465 
347 
395 
419 


512 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


sphi 


ere 


A  poor  cicala,  piping  shrill    . 

A  pot  of  gold!    O  mistress  fair    . 

A  pretty  face!      O  maid  divine    . 

A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star-brigh 

Ask  not  if  Love  no  passion  knows 

A  spirit  came  to  my  sad  bed 

At  daybreak,  when   the  falcon  claps  his  wings 

At    home    to-night,    alone    with    Dot 

At   peep    of   dawn    the    daffodil    . 

At  sixty  years,  when  April's  face 

At  two  years  old   the  world   he  sees 

A  voice  in  the  scented  night 

Awake,  awake,  nay,  slumber  not,  nor  sleep 

Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart   . 

Awaken !    for  the  servitors  of  spring 

A  year  ago  were  love  and  mirth   . 


Banked   in  a  serried   drift,  beside   the  sea 
Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not    . 
Before  the  dawn  begins  to  glow   . 
Before  the  town  had  lost  its  wits  . 
Behold,  above  the  mountains  there  is  light 
Be    it    mine    to    peruse     .... 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie   . 
Beside  the  stream  and  in  the  alder-shade 
Between    the    Midnight   and    the    Morn 
Between   the  moonlight  and  the  fire    . 
Between    the    showers    I    went    my    way 
Beyond   the    night   no    withered    rose    . 
Bird    of   the   bitter   bright    grey   golden    morn 
Books    rule    thy    mind,    so    let    it    be     . 
Brothers   among   men   who   after   us  shall   live 
Brothers  and   men   that  shall   after   us  be 
Brown's  for  Lalage,  Jones  for  Lelia    . 
But  once  or  twice  we  met,  touched  hands 
By  the   pale  marge  of  Acheron    . 

"Captain,  for  what  brave  hire"    . 

Chicken-skin,    delicate,    white 

Cigar  lights!    yer  honour.?      Cigar  lights 

Cliff  and  downs  and  headlands  which  the  forward-hasting 

Come  hither,  child!   and  rest 

Critics  have  damned  our  calling,  since  the  sun 


PAGE 

40  3 

347 

348 

373 

433 

240 

131 

348 

354 

330 

349 

416 

290 

305 

446 

382 

182 

204 

316 

154 

275 

405 

439 

335 

200 

170 

382 

364 

132 

406 

123 

126 

220 

325 

422 

194 
153 
408 
380 
423 
483 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


51,^ 


Cum  tu,   Lydia  .   .   .  You   know   the   rest    . 
Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt  thou  be  mine 

Darling,  I  am  growing  old   . 

Davus,     I    detest     ..... 

Dead  and  gone,  the  days  we  had  together 

Dear,  faithful  beasts  who  went  before 

Dear  R.   L.   S.,   whose   books   each   night 

Death,  a  light  outshining  life,  bids  heaven  resume 

Death,  of  these  do  I  make  my  moan    . 

Down  'Ob'n,   Sir?      Circus,   Bank,  Bank 

Dreamers,   drinkers,  rebel  youth    . 

Easy  is  the  triolet  ..... 
Eight  centuries  unheeded  by  the  West  . 
"Embarquons-nous !^'     I  seem  to  go 

Fair  islands  of  the  silver   fleece    .... 

Fair  Sou-Chong-Tee,  by  a  shimmering  brook    . 

"Farewell   and  adieu"   was  the   burden   prevailing 

Farewell,  Renown!      Too   fleeting  flower    . 

Far  from  the  earth  the  deep-descended  day 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town    . 

Fate,  out  of  the  deep  sea's  gloom 

Fine  violets!  fresh  violets!   come  buy   . 

Fools  may  pine,  and  sots  may  swill 

For  brides  v/ho   grace  these  passing  days 

For  too  much  love  'tis  soothly  said    . 

For  you  alone  how  shall  I  write   . 

Fra  Cruachan   tae  Aberdeen 

Friend  of  my  soul,  forever  true   . 

From  the  sunny  climes  of  France 

Gaoler  of  the  donjon  deep    . 

Gold    or   silver   every    day 

Gone  are  the  tales  that  once  we  read 

Goodbye!    the   tears  are   in   my   eyes    . 

Goodness  and  beauty  and  truth    . 

Had  she   divined  how  many  virelais    . 
Happy,   my   Life,   the   love   you   proffer 
Hark,  how  the  surges  dash    . 
Have  you  learnt  the  sorrow  of  windy  nights 


PAGE 

476 
477 

224 
404 
380 
438 
358 
139 
367 
407 
197 

395 

232 
325 

166 
230 
377 
328 
168 
310 
381 
407 
266 
223 
332 
341 
188 
308 
116 

243 
202 
242 
489 
467 

368 
404 
145 
169 


514- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


"He  collected  his  thoughts,"  said  the  tome   . 

Heed  not  the   folk  who  sing  or  say    . 

He  is  the  despots'  Despot.     All  must  bide   . 

He  lived   in   a  cave  by  the  seas 

He  longs  to  steal  a  kiss  of  mine 

Here's   a   present    for   Rose    . 

Her  lips  were  so  near    . 

Her  spinning-wheel  she  deftly  guides 

He  thinks  not  deep   who  hears  the  strain    . 

High  beyond   the  granite  portal  arched  across 

His  poisoned  shafts,  that  fresh  he  dips 

Hope  bowed   his   head   in   sleep    . 

Hot  hands  that  yearn  to  touch  her  flower-like  face 

I   am  not  ambitious  at  all    . 

I   am   not  fit  to  follow;   yet  I  pray 

I  cannot  read,  I  cannot  rest    . 

I  caught  the  changes  of  the  year   . 

Ices — Programmes — Lemonade 

If  I  should  steal  a  little  kiss 

If  I  were  king — ah  love,  if  I  were  king 

If   I   were   king,   my    pipe   should    be    premier 

If  love  could  last,  I'd  spend  my  all    . 

If    Love   should    faint,    and    half    decline 

If  rest  is  sweet   at  shut  of   day    . 

If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows   . 

If  there  should  be  a  sound  of  song    . 

If  they  hint,  O  Musician,  the  piece  that  you  played 

If   you    never    write    verses    yourself    . 

I   have   not   read  a  rotten   page    . 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses   . 

I  hold  it  truth  with  him  who  sweetly  sings 

I  intended  an  Ode 

I  killed  her?      Ah,  why  do   they  cheer 

I  love  you  dearly,  O  my  sweet    . 

I    make    my   shroud,    but    no    one    knows 

Immortal  eyes,  why  do  they  never  die 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high    . 

In  a  vacant  mood  the  phrase  came  to  me 

In  Ballades  things  always  contrive  to  get  lost 

In  beechen  shade  the  hours  are  sweet 

In  Camelot  how  grey  and  green    . 

In   dreams   I    crossed   a   barren   land 


PAGE 

484 
245 
277 
228 
399 
398 
400 
349 
214 
159 
331 
410 
334 

119 

491 

485 

31  1 

406 

399 

345 

345 

341 

332 

383 

400 

318 

238 

406 

237 

208 

259 

398 

407 

306 

41  1 

477 

329 

1  18 

463 

357 

355 

191 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


515 


n  fair  Pi-ovence,  the  land  of  lute  and  rose 

n   Flanders  fields  the   poppies   blow 

n  London  town  men  love  and   hate 

n  love's  disport,  g-ay  bubbles  blown 

n   the  clatter  of   the  train    . 

n   the   light,   in   the   shade 

n   the   mud   of   the   Cambrian   main 

n  the  School  of  Coquettes    . 

n  thy  clear  eyes,   fairest,   I   see    . 

n    Visionshire    the    sky    is    blue 

offer  you  more  than  earthly  riches 

often    does   a   quiet   read    . 

saw    a    snowflake    in    the    air    . 

saw  her  shadow  on   the  grass    . 

saw  my  soul   at   rest  upon  a  day 

sit  enthroned   'mid  icy  wastes  afar 
solde,  in  the  story  old   . 

study  wise  themes  with   rigid  care 
is    enough    to    love    you.      Let    me    be 

took  her  dainty  eyes,   as  well    . 

waited  on   a  mountain's  midmost  side 

was    very    cold    .... 

will  go  hence,  and  seek  her,  my  old  Love 

wonder    if,   sunning   in    Eden's   vales 

wonder  in  what  Isle  of  Bliss    . 

would  that  all  men  my  hard  case  might  know 


Jenny  kissed  me  in  a  dream   .... 
Jenny  kissed   me   when   we   met    .         .         . 

Keeper  of  promises  made  in  spring  . 
King  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims  . 
Kissing  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet  . 
Kiss  me,  sweetheart,   the   Spring   is   here 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 

Last    night    in    Memory's    boughs    aswing 

Laughter  and  tears  to  you  the  gods  once  gave 

Les  marts  ijoiti  vitel     Ay,  for  a  little  space 

Les  Marts  <vont  vite:  the  dead  go  fast 

Let  all  men   living  on  earth  take  heed 

Light  love  in  a  mist,  by  the  midsummer  moon   misguided 

Like  a  queen  enchanted  who  may  not  laugh  or  weep 


PAGE 

445 
370 
346 
336 
421 
409 
227 
398 
340 
354 
467 
473 
396 
410 
453 
288 
211 
257 
343 
424 
286 
408 
388 
248 
494 
479 

484 
492 

253 
164 
331 

304 

492 
435 
358 
365 
366 
471 
377 
167 


516 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Lilacs    glow,    and   jasmines   climb 

Little    mistress    mine,    good-bye 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling 

Love,  barken  how  the  boughs  o'erhead 

Love  hath  wept  till  he  is  blind    . 

Love    is   a   swallow         .... 

Love  lies  bleeding  in  the  bed  whereover 

Love,  out  of  the  depth  of  things  . 

Love    that   holdeth   firm    in    fee    . 

Love,    why   so   long   away    . 

Love  with  shut  wings,  a  little  ungrown  love 

Man's  very  voice  is  stilled  on  Troas'  shore 

May  he  fall  in  with  beasts  that  scatter  fire 

Men,  brother  men,  that  after  us  yet  live 

Might  love  be  bought,   I  were  full   fain 

Ministers!    you,    most   serious 

'Mongst   all    immortals   tardiest   is   their   tread 

My  brother,  my  Valerius,  dearest  head 

My  day  and  night  are  in  my  lady's  hand 

My  days  for  singing  and  loving  are  over 

My  father  died  when  I  was  all  too  young 

My  friend,  from  China  to  Peru   . 

My  Lady's  Eyes  Remembrance  bring   . 

My  love  to  me  is  always  kind    . 

My   rival   Death    is   fashioned    amorously 

Myrtilla  thinks!   be  still,   oh,  breeze    . 

My  soul  is  sick  of  nightingale  and  rose 

Nay,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 
Never  a  horn  sounds  in  Sherwood  to-night 
New  roads  to  fare,  new  toils  to  overthrow 
News!      Good  News!   at  the  old  year's  end 
Not   wise  as  cunning  scholars  are 
Now   ain't   they   utterly    too-too    . 
Now  if  there  is  one  thing   I   hate 
Now,   isn't  it  hot    .... 
Now  take  your  full  of  love  and  glee 
Now  that  the  swallow  again  we  see 
Now,  when  the  street-pent  airs  blow  stale 
Now  who  will  thread  the  winding  way 

O  babbling  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear 
O    conquerors    and    heroes,    say     . 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


517 


"O  crikey,  Bill!"  she  ses  to  me,  she  ses 

O    daffodil,    flower   saffron-gowned 

Of   all    the    songs   that   dwell 

O  fleet  of  foot  as  Artemis    . 

O  ghosts  of   Bygone   Hours,  that  stand 

O  Goat-foot  God  of  Arcady 

O  goddess  sweet,  give  ear  unto  my  prayer 

O   happy  sleep !    that  bear'st   upon   thy   breast 

Oh!  flame  of  grass,  shot  upward  from  the  earth 

Oh,   gentle  Lady   of   God's  sea 

O  honey  of   Hymettus  Hill    . 

Oh,  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord 

Oh,  to  go  back  to  the  days  of  June 

O   jewel    of   the   deep    blue   night 

O  Master  of  the  Old  and  New    . 

O  may  he  meet  with  dragons  belching  fire 

O  mighty  Queen,  our  Lady  of  the  fire 

O  most  fair  God!     O  Love  both  new  and  old 

One  ballade  more  before   we  say  good-night 

One  merry  morn   when  all  the  earth  was  bright 

One    of    these    days,    my   lady    whispereth 

On   every   wind   there   comes   the   dolorous  cry 

On   London  stones,   I  sometimes  sigh    . 

On  Newport  beach  tliere  ran  right  merrily   . 

Onward  the  Nation  marches,  and  in  sight    . 

O  scorn  me  not,  although  my  worth  be  slight 

O  singer  of  Persephone 

O  singer  of   the  field  and   fold    . 

O   to   be   somewhere   by  the   sea    . 

Our  son   and   heir  grows  like  a  tree 

Out  of  the   dark,   pure  twilight,   where  the  stream 

Out  of  the  silence   some  one  called  my  name 

O  visions  of  salmon  tremendous    . 

O    winds   that    wail    in   sombre   skies    . 

O  yellow  flowers  that  Herrick  sung    . 

Perhaps  I    made   a  slight  mistake    . 
Philistia!      Maids  in  muslin   white 
Princes! — and    you,    most    valorous 
Proud  insolent  June  with  burning  lips  . 
Prudence    Mears   hath   an   old   blue    ulate 


PAGE 

472 
430 
117 
433 
196 
425 
387 
362 
334 
434 
315 
411 
171 
429 
430 
122 
282 
280 
141 
455 
340 
156 
329 
472 
293 
343 
426 
417 
180 
350 
379 
198 
258 
365 
326 

401 
355 
115 
312 
219 


Queen,  thou  art  found  in  toiling — where  the  wheat 


284 


518 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Rhyme  in  a  late  disdainful  age    . 
Romance  is  dead,  say  some,  and  so,  to-day  . 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day    ..... 
Rose,  round  whose  bed 

St.  Valentine!   well  hast  thou  said 
Sea    to    sea    that    clasps    and    fosters     Englan 
evermore  ...... 

She  has  just  "put  her  gown  on"  at  Girton   . 
She   never  wrote  a  book         .... 

She's  had   a  Vassar  education 

Ship,  to  the  roadstead  rolled 

Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life 

Slowly  I  smoke  and  hug  my  knee 

So  long  ago  it  was!      Nay,  is  it  true    . 

Some  fools  keep  ringing  the  dumb  waiter  bell 

Some  of  the  books  that  I  would  prize   . 

Someone  has  lit  the  lamp  and   hung    . 

Sometimes   when    I    sit    down    at    night 

Song  wakes  with  every  wakening  year 

Speakin'  in   general,   I   'ave   tried    'em   all    . 

Spring  at   her   height   on   a   morn   at   prime 

Spring  sits  on  her  nest    ..... 

Squire  Adam  had  two  wives,  they  say    . 
Straw  in  the  street  where  I  pass  to-day 
Strengthen,   my  Love,  this  castle  of  my   heart 
Such  mistletoe  is   hard   to  find 
Sudden    I    grew    warmer         .... 

Summer    has   seen   decay        .... 

Suppose  you  screeve?    or  go  cheap-jack 
Sweetheart,  I  wait;   now,  as  in   time   gone  by 


Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is    . 
Thank  Heaven,   in  these   despondent  days 
That    New    Year's    Call — the    thirty-first 
That  she  is  dead  breeds  no  uncouth  despair 
The  air  is  white   with  snow-flakes  clinging 
The  Ancient  Wood  is  white  and  still   . 
The    big    teetotum    twirls     . 
The  Books  I  cannot  hope  to  buy  . 
The  clouds  are  thick  and  darkly  lower 
The    dust   of  Carthage   and   the   dust    . 
The  far  green  westward  heavens  are  bland 


uttenn 


PAGE 

138 
291 
397 
376 

353 

162 

221 

485 

222 

165 

309 

195 

490 

481 

235 

308 

236 

147 

458 

256 

409 

212 

383 

301 

397 

409 

315 

475 

491 

493 
192 
352 
368 
427 
183 
269 
234 
255 
144 
148 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


519 


knows 


The  fierce  queen  wearied,  and  she  smote  her  hands 

The  frost  hath  spread  a  shining  net    . 

The  furrow's  long-  behind  my  plow    . 

The   gallows   in   my    garden,   people   say    . 

The  Gates  of  Horn   are  dull  of  hue    . 

The  gaunt  trees  black  and   naked  stand 

The  gods  are  dead?      Perhaps  they  are!      Who 

The  heat  wave  sweeps  along  the  street 

The   Hours  passed  by,  a  fleet  confused  crowd 

The  hungry  north  wind   whines    . 

The  lilacs  are   in   bloom         .... 

The  loaded   sheaves   are   harvested 

The   loud   black  flight   of   the   storm   diverges 

The  loveliness  of   water,   its  faery  ways    . 

The  Mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls   . 

The  moon  with  all  her  tricksy  ways    . 

The  Muses   love   me   and   I   am   content 

The   native    drama's   sick   and    dying    . 

Theocritus,  who  bore      ..... 

The  old  sea-ways  send  up  their   tide    . 

The  Old  Year  goes   down-hill  so  slow 

The   poets,   extolling  the   graces    . 

There  are  moons  of  all  quarters  and  kinds 

The  Rebel   of  eighty  years  ago    . 

There  comes  no  voice  from  thee,  O  Lord    . 

There  is  no  woman   living  that  draws  breath 

There's  a  noise  of  coming,   going 

There's   a   tear    in    her   eye    .... 

The  roses   are    dead         ..... 

The  rose  still  blooms  within  the  dipt  parterre 

The  sky  and  sea  glared  hard  and  bright  and  blank 

The  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the  song  of  the  j 

her    waking    is    rolled     . 
The  sea  on  the  beach    ..... 
These    children,    oftener    barefoot    wayfaring 
The  ships   go   down   to  take  the   sea    . 
The  sky  is  blue  with  summer  and  the  sun    . 
The  spring  is  passing  through  the  land 
The    thrush's    singing    days    are    fled    . 
The    ways    of    death    are   soothing   and   serene 
The  world  has  cast  her  habiting    . 
The  world  is  so   full  of  a  number  of  thmgs 
They    are    all    gone    away    .... 


oy  ol 


PAGE 

217 
172 
226 
247 
363 
176 
362 
18+ 
279 
174 
314 
313 
216 
189 
397 
302 
391 
239 
151 
361 
360 
225 
244 
405 
317 
449 
177 
398 
396 
187 
378 

160 
410 
142 
361 
175 
312 
428 
319 
301 
441 
437 


520 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


The  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold 
The   year   is    lapsing   into   time    . 
This  book   of   hours   Love   wrought    . 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press    . 
Thistle-down  is  a  woman's  love    . 
Those  far,  fair  lands  our  feet  have  trod 
Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride 
Time  has  changed  naught  in  us;  for  now  the  din 
To  buy  my  book — if  you  will  be  so  kind   . 
To  kiss  a  fan  ...... 

'Twas  a  Jacqueminot   rose    .... 

Two   lonely   lovers,   young   and   lovely,   stray 

Underneath   this  tablet   rest    . 
Under  the  rows  of  gas-jets  bright 
Unhappy,   I   observe    the   Ass 
Unhappy    is    Bo-Peep     .... 
Up  in  the  woodland  where  Spring 
Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand    . 

Villanelle,    why   art    thou    mute    . 
Violet,   delicate,   sweet    .... 

Was    I   a    Samurai    renowned 

We   bless   the   coming   of   the   Night    . 

We  hang  to-morrow,  then?      That  doom  is  fit 

We  know  not  yet  what  life  shall  be    . 

We'll  to  the  woods  and   gather  may    . 

We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more    . 

What  is  it  makes  it  a  Hat    . 

What  is  the  song  that  the  sea-wind  sings 

What  is  to  come  we  know  not.     But  we  know 

What  likeness  may  define,  and  stray  not 

What  of  this  prayer  which   myriad  skies 

What  makes  the  world.  Sweetheart,  reply 

What  more?      Where  is  the  third  Calixt 

When  Burbadge  played,  the  stage  was  bare 

When  Finis  comes,  the  Book  we  close   . 

When  first  we  met  the  nether  world  was  white 

When  first  we  met  we  did  not  guess    . 

When  flower-time  comes  and  all  the  woods  are  gay 

When   I  look  back,   as   daylight   closes 

When   in   the  parlor  car  we  speed 

When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose   . 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


521 


PAGE 

When    Love    is    once    dead 410 

When   on   the   mid  sea   of   the  night    .  .         .         .317 

When  Shakespeare  laughed,  the  fun  began   .         .         .         .359 

When  the  brow  of  June  is  crowned  by  the  rose  .         .         .436 
When  the   Morning  broke  before  us    .         .  .         .206 

When  the  roads  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut      .         .         .      260 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new,  the  King  .         .         .         .152 

When  time  upon  the  wing    .         .         .         .         .         .         .306 

When  Venus  saw  Ascanius  sleep    .         .         .         .         .         .210 

When   you   are  very  old  and   I   am   gone    .         .         .         .135 

Where  are  the  cities  of  the  plain 143 

Where  are  the  creatures  of  the  deep    .         .         .         .         .158 

Where  are  the  mighty  kings  of  yore 150 

Where  are  the  passions  they  essayed    .         .         .         .         .149 

Where  be  they  that  once  would  sing 146 

Where  is  that  list  of  Weslyans  I  made  .....      469 

Where,  prithee,  are  thy  comrades  bold        .         .         .         .133 

Where  the  waves  of  burning  cloud  are  rolled    .         .         .      209 
Where  wide  the  forest  boughs  are  spread    .         .         .         .127 

Who  is  it  that  weeps  for  the  last  year's  flowers   .         .         .215 
Who  wins  my  hand  must  do  these  three  things  well    .         .      389 
Why  are  our  songs  like  the  moan  of  the  main    .         .         .      263 
Why    is    the    moon  .  .         .         .         .         .408 

Why  not,  my  Soul?  Why  not  fare  forth  and  fly.  .  366 
Wilt  thou  have  words,  when  silence  deep    .         .         .         .3  38 

Wine  and  woman  and  song 424 

Wishful  to  add  to  my  mental  power  .....  246 
With  a  ripple  of  leaves  and  a  tinkle  of  streams  .  .  .  254 
Without  one  kiss  she's  gone  away  .  .  .  .  .3  38 
With  Pipe  and  Book  at  close  of  day  .  .  .  .  .360 
With  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan  .....  328 
With  plash  of  the  light  oars  swiftly  plying  .  .  .20  7 
With  strawberries  we  filled  a  tray  .  .  .  .  .35  6 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die 415 

Ye   little   Rhyme   I   swore   last   night 324 

Yet  at   least   with  the   rose 400 

Your  rondeau's  tale  must  still  be  light        .         .         .         .32  3 

Your   triolet   should    glimmer 395 

You  shun   me,   Chloe,   wild   and  shy 30  7 

You  that  climb  the  trails  of  air 229 

You   thought   it   was  a  falling  leaf   we   heard    .         .         .  316 

You  would  not  hear  me  speak;  you  never  knew        .         .  490 


REFRAINS  OF  BALLADES  AND  CHANTS 

ROYAL 


A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden 

Ah!   lost  are  the   loves  of  the   long  ago 

Ah!    woe   is  me   for  all   these  things    . 

Alas,    for   the    fleet   wings   of    Time    . 

All  in  the  heart  of  a  minstrel's  measure 

Along    the    mead    of    Asphodel     . 

And   bid   at   last   a   long   farewell   to   all 

And  deathless  praises  to  the  vine-god  sing 

And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things   . 

And  hopes  of  harvest  kindle  in  the  corn 

And  show  the  little  things  that  count   . 

And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain   . 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask 

Anna's   the   name   of    namss   for   me    . 

Another   redskin   bit   the    dust 

A  petal   falls   from  the  Dreamland   Rose 

As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go    . 

A  storm  is  coming  on  the   Chiltern   Hills 

At  every  turn  on  every  way 

At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules    . 

A  travelling  salesman  came  to  an  inn    . 


Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones 

Behold!    the   gentle  sun   is  shining 

Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot 

But,  ah  me,  for  the  Moon  that  I  cry  for 

But  her  forte's  to  evaluate  ir 

But  I  hope  I  have  kept  to  the  rules    . 

But  pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  Grace 

But  pray  to  God  that  all  we  be  forgiven 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year 


Dawn  and  noon  and  sunset  are  one  before  thy  face 
Deep   in   the   forest  sings  the   nightingale    . 

523 


PAGE 

222 

215 

205 

133 

467 

193 

295 

275 

237 

187 

226 

164 

463 

220 

242 

209 

195 

175 

148 

120 

248 

479 
255 
475 
244 
221 
119 
126 
123 
125 
493 

167 
137 


524    REFRAINS  OF  BALLADES  AND  CHANTS  ROYAL 


Don't  forget  the  parachute    .... 
Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these 
Dust  in  dust  are  the  bones  of  kings 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die 
Even   with   the   good   knight   Charlemain    . 

Fairies   abound   all   the   time,   everywhere    . 

Farewell,  farewell,  old  year 

Fate's  a  fiddler.  Life's  a  dance    . 

Folly's  the   fairest  thing  on   earth 

For  God   will   have  it   so      . 

For  Love  is  a  liar  we  love  to  trust 

For   me   the   blithe   ballade    . 

For  the    Fates   are   captious    girls 

For  these  things  occur  in  the  Flowery  Land 

From  battle,   murder  and  sudden   death 

Gissing's    "By    the    Ionian    Sea"     . 
Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips    . 
Give   us — ah  !    give  us — but   Yesterday 
Give  us,  ah!   give  us  the  Derby  Day   . 
Go   forth   and   welcome   the   eternal   king 
Good   luck   has   he   that   deals   with   none 
Great  literature    is   with   us  year   on   year 

Her  central  fires  make  one  vast  flame 
Here    the    limitless    north-eastern,    there    the    strait 
western    sea     ...... 

Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the   trail    .... 

How  many  pranks  we  played  when  we  were  young 

I  am  great  Boreas,  King  of  wind  and  cold 

I   am  the  man   to   write  a   play    . 

If  it  could  be  always  May    . 

I   hear  the  pattering  of  the  rain    . 

I   loved  you   once   in   old  Japan    . 

In  fact,  my  form's  the  Bloomin'  Utter 

In   Gigues,   Gavottes,  and   Minuets 

In  the  Garden  of  Grace  whose  name  none  knows 

In   the   green   Ogygian   Isle  secure 

Into    the   night   go   one   and   all    . 

I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day 


south 


PAGE 

229 
169 
150 

492 
129 

185 
174 
266 
257 
151 
253 
117 
206 
230 
199 

235 
211 
1  15 
464 
290 
268 
259 

157 

162 
181 
134 

288 
239 
202 
255 
155 
474 
154 
207 
216 
149 
469 


REFRAINS  OF  BALLADES  AND  CHANTS  ROYAL    525 


I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  to-day  . 

It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills    .... 

King  Pandion,    he    is    dead 

Life  so  sweet  as  this  that  dies  and  casts  off  death 
Life  yearns  for  solace  toward  the  sea   . 
Lo,  I  am  Youth;   I  bid  thee  follow  me 

Make  ready  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man   . 
Midsummer  days!      Midsummer  days    . 
Midsummer   nights!      O   midsummer   nights 
My  love  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  theirs 
My    shadow    on    a    moonlight    night    . 
My  way  of  life  can  end  in  nothing  good   . 

Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow 
'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine    . 
Now  all  your  victories  are  in  vain 

O  for  a  breath  of  the  salt  sea-breeze 

Of    "Resurrexit    Dominus"     . 

Oh,  for  an  end  of  dotty  fiction    . 

O   lovely  lyrical   lost   refrain 

Omar!   the  peace  you  sought  we  find  in  you 

One  to  write  their  songs 

Only   our   dreams   are  true 

Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird    . 

On  the  wrathful  wof ul  marge  of  earth  and  sea 

Or  the  rose-bright  tales  of  Boccaccio 

O  sweet  wild  creatures   of  the  sea 

O   to   be  somewhere  by   the   sea    . 

O   Vanity    of   Vanities    . 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away 

Romance  is  dead,  say  some;  but  I  say  No 
Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names   . 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray   . 
Sigh  in  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour    . 
Sing  on,   sing   on,   O   Thrush 
Songs  and  singers  are  out  of  date 


PAGE 

247 
188 

197 

140 
265 
279 

198 
254 
254 
218 
192 
481 

128 
186 

212 

203 

184 
176 
470 
118 
232 
116 
194 
208 
159 
231 
158 
180 
269 
183 

292 
465 

282 
168 
178 
263 


526    REFRAINS  OF  BALLADES  AND  CHANTS  ROYAL 


Souls  of   Poets   dead   and   gone 

So  very  lightly,  Love  rum  into  debt    . 

Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 

seeches,    athirst    for    the    foam 
Sweet  water  from  the  well  of  song    . 


us  bids  and  be 


too 


sea 


me 


Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write 

Tempt    not    the    tyrant    sea    . 

That  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates, 

The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break 

The   Books   that   never   can   be   mine    . 

The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady 

The  cool,  white  wind  of  healing  from  the 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in   vain 

The  fair  white  feet  of  Nicolete    . 

The  famous  Sign  of  the  Caxton  Head 

The  fog's  dumb  army  up  the  canon  goes 

The  ghosts  we  all  can  raise  at   will    . 

Their  tails  are  still  behind    . 

The  last  is  gone,  since  Banville  too  is  dead 

The  laughter  was   the  best  of  all 

The  master's  yonder  in  the  Isle    . 

The  moon  goes  silently  upon  her  way  . 

Then  hey! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyr 

The   Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse    . 

The   Pixies  are   abroad  to-night    . 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose 

There  shall  be  hanging  gardens  for  my  queen 

There's  no   good   girl's   lip   out   of  Paris    . 

These  are  a  type  of  the  world   of  Age 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day   . 

These  are  the  things  that  Love  is  not   . 

These   do   I   love,   and   these   alone 

The   sunless   marsh   of   Acheron    . 

— They  take  no  thought.     Your  pity  on  them  all 

This  is  King  Louis'  orchard  close 

This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met 

This   is   the   end    of    our   summering    . 

This  vintage  shall  the  old  world's  youth  renew 

This  was  a  people  that  had  lost  its  king    . 

This   was   the   Pompadour's   fan    . 

Thou  art  my  Lord  to  whom  I  bend  the  knee 


PAGE 

146 
135 

160 
147 

240 

165 

238 

246 

234 

191 

284 

204 

213 

233 

182 

170 

466 

141 

249 

138 

156 

260 

236 

172 

277 

260 

217 

130 

256 

214 

253 

219 

200 

142 

127 

131 

471 

293 

286 

153 

281 


REFRAINS  OF  BALLADES  AND  CHANTS  ROYAL     527 


Through  the  portals  of  horn 

Thrust  them   through   the   Little   Door 

'Tis    the    symphony    of    Spring     . 

To  be  continued  in  our   next 

To   edify   austere   Persephone 

'Tvvas  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man   . 

Under    the    wintry    skies    to    marry     . 

Vain  hopes  are  all  we  have  to  sell 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name 

We    are    alone    in    Arcady     .... 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went 

We   come   and   go — these   things    remain 

We'd   rather  be   alive   than   not    . 

We'll  toast  the  brides  of  other  Junes 

We  sing  the  plain   "women,"  God  bless  them 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new 

When   Venus   kissed    white    roses   red 

Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time    . 

Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time   . 

Where  are  the  Gods  of  Yesterday 

Where  are  the  ships  of  Tyre 

Where    breaks    the    blue    Sicilian    sea 

While  the   weakliest  go   to   the   wall 

Who  could  wish  evil   to  the  realm  of   France 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France 

Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain   for  me    . 

With  Sir  Love  among  the   roses    . 

Woman,  my  friend,   is  ware   of  Paris 

Woman's  place   is   in   the   Home    . 

Ye  come  through  the  Ivory  Gate 
Ye  Islands  of   the   Southern   Cross 
Youth  is  the  sign  of  them  one  and  all 


PAGE 

258 
243 
177 
241 
201 
228 

171 

196 
132 

190 
471 
189 
245 
223 
225 
152 
210 
143 
144 
494 
145 
173 
227 
122 
121 
259 
257 
179 
136 
224 

258 
166 
256 


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